Dance of Lead
by Caerulei
Summary: Seven, once a soldier, now a peasant, Orla, from birth a servant, whose destiny yet unfolds, Rhiannon, rotting but not destroyed. The first two; friends of the closest kind, The third; a sapling seeking something lost and forgotten. Three outcasts, charr, human, sylvari, Become stones in a Foundation.
1. Act 1: Chapter 1: Ball and Chain

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Tyria is a world belonging to Arenanet and NCSOFT in the form of the Guild Wars franchise.

I also only in part own the Foundation-Hub (. org) unofficial universe, in which this story coincides.

* * *

ACT I: So Long, Halcyon

Chapter 1: Ball and Chain

Seven felt the ground shudder as walls and buildings tumbled down in long lines that the massive artillery cut through Divinity's Reach raising clouds of dust which glowed in a bluish light. The wall was breached, it was his time.

A static tingle stirred in the air as Seven walked forward with his warband, faceless nemeses behind their fierce iron helmets.

_CRACK_

He glanced down at his left leg. For no apparent reason it bent outward and he could not bring it back in place. He called for his warband to wait for him but they had vanished into the glowing dust. He limped, desperate to catch up and be in on the initial battle. He gasped for air and ripped off his helmet revealing his face. Air whistled between his sharp teeth of his silver muzzle which gave him his second name, Steelwolf. He continued to shed his armour, not understanding why. Underneath instead of chain mail he wore simple rancher's clothes over his feline bulk. Part of his mind ordered him to flee, he was not equipped, he could barely walk, he was nothing, but he trudged forward, ignoring his doubts, his only desire was to fight and die for the Legion.

Despite how slow his progress seemed, he somehow caught up with his warband in mere minutes in the outer ring of the city. Clouds of sparkling dust concealed their view but eventually it cleared enough for them to view the devastation. Bodies littered the streets but the group of charr remained un-phased. These were humans, humans were enemies. He started at a strange rattling shriek and turned his head just as a raven flew over his shoulder, spraying scarlet specks on his woven sleeve, somehow able to fly with its wings soaked in thick blood. He followed it with his eyes where it landed on a tower and melted like ice, leaving a dark stain on the purity of the turret.

He continued on, putting the strange event from his mind, hungry for the glory of reaching the centre of the city where there was bound to be a fight.

A piercing wail brought his warband to a halt. There before them knelt a young woman cradling the crushed body of what was once a tiny girl in a blue dress.

Even the stoutest warrior was frozen in place, confronted by the first horror of conquest. Despite all their training or discipline, deep within their feline hearts they felt a glimmer of pity. A parent's loss of their child was something a perfect world would forbid.

A straw coloured charr was the first to stalk forwards, drawing a wicked blade to end the woman's misery. Instead, air rushed out of his lungs in a gasp as the woman appeared in front of him and slammed a fist into the his chest. He fell, and the woman moved on, her dark hair turning red and flying in a trail behind her. Every member of the warband tried to stop her and each one found themselves flung aside like straw to the wind. Seven raised his rifle but was not quick enough and found himself staring into the woman's frightening eyes.

The city was gone, only darkness surrounded him. Seven cried out, calling the names of his comrades. No answers came. Out of the darkness, twelve long, grey feathers drifted into view floating on an unperceivable current. They tenderly brush his and dance through his four ears and horns until coming to rest on the ground around his leonine tale, arranging themselves so they lay radiating outwards.

In the distance the darkness parted and a pair of giant blue eyes appeared before him glaring in disapproval through narrow pupils.

Seven gasped and sat up in bed. It was just a dream. "Not again." He groaned. He looked in the corner of his simply furnished room to see a wide eyed teen girl stare at him in concern as she sat at attention on her straw filled mattress in the corner.

"Dreaming of your war band?" she asked.

"Yeah…" he shook his head to wake himself. "But I think you were there this time, kicking all of our tails."

She chuckled, her brown eyes sparkling. "Really? I don't know how to take that." The girl stepped forward and grasped Seven's arm to help him out of his bed. Some of her long rusty bangs fell in front of her almond shaped eyes, impeding her view, but she faithfully clung to his arm.

He groaned stiffly as he moved his crumpled leg to the floor. "Thanks Orla," he muttered, grinning toothily.

After brushing her hair back she smiled brightly in return. "It's what I'm here for. Come on, Srykar made breakfast, and you don't want to keep that old lion waiting."

Seven chuckled as he grabbed his crutch and hobbled after the young woman towards the farmhouse's large kitchen.

Another charr stood before a blazing fire over which hung a large kettle. He was much larger than Seven, his fur was a dark brown like a dirt road after the rain, with white hairs scattered around his features betraying his age. He turned his grizzled head to them. "Well top of the morning to you. Groggy like a dog in summer are you? Keep down the thrashing next time, I could barely sleep with the noise of you doing you-know-what in your bed."

Seven rolled his eyes. "Relax old one, it was just a bad dream, no need to be talking like that in front of the young one."

Orla snorted, then covered her face in embarrassment. "I already know more than I need to about Charr behaviours, it's not like Srykar's wistful chatter can ruin me further."

"I'll have both of you know…" the elderly feline began, proudly stroking his tusks.

"Now you've done it." Seven hissed at Orla as she sat next to him.

Srykar began his account. "Back when I was a legionnaire, I was very wanted by the females. All of them needed their brood to have my genes, and of course I was more than willing to…"

Seven and Orla rolled their eyes and toned out the ramblings of the retired warrior as they chowed down on the savoury gruel. However, the elder waxed graphic and both charr and girl turned a shade of green, snatched up their bowls and hastened out the door to finish their meal in peace.

Taking their seats underneath a weeping willow by the brook beside the house, the two resumed their meal to the tune of the bubbling brook and the singing birds.

Orla grumbled, glancing back at the house. "Pervert."

"What happened to all that bravado earlier?" Seven inquired teasingly.

"I just didn't want you standing up for me, I can do that myself!"

"Or not…"

"…or not…" she conceded with a sigh.

Seven grinned at his little friend. "You should give him a bit of a break though. He's almost seventy but his mind is still back on the battlefield with his war-brothers. Of course he's going to be a bit crass."

Orla glared. "Just don't let him be a bad influence on you. That clear? If I hear the charr I've been nursing the last two years turned out into a breeding-fiend I might be forced to resort to dire measures."

Seven wiped his heavily whiskered muzzle and lowered his bowl. Then he wrapped a big arm around the girl's tiny shoulders. "That won't happen for two reasons. One; females are trouble-,"

Orla glared but allowed him to continue. "and two; cripples don't exactly attract many options."

The girl shook her head. "But you're smart, silver, and adorable!" she insisted.

He snorted in comic derision. "Females look for scars, lineage, strength and war stories. I have none of the above."

Orla looked sadly at her friend's twisted leg. It was hard for her to understand the charr's feelings. She had been raised as a slave, same as her parents, grandparents and back into the mists of time. They had accepted this life for even the Flame Legion charr, who once owned her, were not grievous taskmasters. They offered protection from the orcs, bandits, and trolls. Freedom to her was having the wide blue sky over her head and prairies and woods to lead the herds of cattle through. She was content.

And yet here was Seven Steelwolf, a young charr born free but bound by an injury to live as a farmer. He would be blessed with a long life and friends that would never leave. Why did he want to trade it for the horrors of the battlefield? Was the bent leg that saved Seven's life also his ball and chain like the one Orla remembered wearing at the slave market?

Her considerations were interrupted by her friend's rumbling voice. "Come on, it's time to move the cows to pasture."

She silently nodded and followed Seven to the house. From the rack by the door Seven retrieved his belt which had two identical, antique pistols, and a rifle which he slung on his back. Orla grabbed her shepherd's staff. Keeping pace with her crippled companion she took the cows to pasture under the idyllic blue sky.

Four calm hours passed when Seven halted and raised his snout to the breeze. He sniffed deeply, then nodded. "Hey, Orla! Let's take a break in the valley by the spring."

"Yes Seven!" Orla dashed around the outskirts of the herd, and with skill earned through years of practice brought them into the small sheltered valley.

Seven grinned at her work and nodded in approval as he lowered himself to the ground. Once she was done Orla sat on a boulder, her back to her friend and pulled out a reed flute. She looked askance at him, gesturing towards the instrument.

"Oh er-, go ahead."

She flashed a happy smile and soon the flittering notes filled the air and danced with the cacophony of the bubbling spring and the singing birds.

Seven sighed contentedly and lay down on the grassy slope in the shade of a birch grove. He watched as the light danced on his assistant's reddish hair and shoulders. His eyes widened in realisation. His hand snuck into his jacket and pulled out a sketchbook and pencil. He opened the book and flipped passed the intricate blue prints of engines, devices, and gadgets to the middle of the book which was filled with sketches of butterflies, trees, and landscapes though his eyes were mostly looking at the scattered picture studies of the girl in front of him. Most were sketches of her face and it's many expressions though some were simple, candid poses of her daydreaming, working or napping.

"I thought so," He mumbled. "I don't have one from this angle."

Swiftly, his pencil flew across the yellow paper as he drew the scene before him, trying his best to catch the lighting and ambience with his one colour.

He was nearly done, just trying to get the shoulders right, when his subject's voice made his heart leap in his throat. "What are you drawing, Seven?"

He immediately slammed the book shut and dropped it beside him. His flustered expression drew a smile from Orla. "What is it? You can show me."

_That's just the thing, I-I can't. _ "Um… er… well…." He thumbed through the pages hurriedly until he arrived at a blueprint for one of his long forgotten projects. "Here! Here is what I was working on! You just… umm… surprised me!"

The teen cocked an eyebrow suspiciously. "Really? What is it."

"A… a-an intristernarfgarberato-, it digs holes!"

"Huh, couldn't you just use a shovel?"

"Yeah… it was a stupid idea anyway."

"Oh don't stop trying!" Orla insisted, excitement bubbling in her voice. "If it could dig holes faster, then it might be a great idea! You could get a prize at the annual engineering event in Black Citadel. You know the last one to win an award there received a permanent workshop and a hefty sum of money, and did you know? He was a farmer too! Didn't live more than ten miles from here."

Pleased with the shift in the conversation's focus Seven asked, "So, how did you find out about this?"

"Srykar lets me read the news over his shoulder." she shrugged. "Speaking of Srykar, he's going to need our help back at the house soon."

Looking to the sky, Seven noticed the angle of the sun. "Yeah, and it looks like the cows should have had their fill, they'll need to get ready for milking."

"Oh and Seven…" He looked askance up at her. She smirked, "Tell me when you want to show what you were really drawing."

"Urk!" he scratched his snout nervously and pretended he had not heard.

The two guided the cows back to the house, but not even the charr's keen senses detected five pairs of watchful eyes in the brambles as they passed.

At the gate they re-counted the cows as they passed through.

"That's all of them." Seven said pleased, leaning on the fence post.

"Really? I only counted seventeen." Orla replied.

They both looked over the cows again then spoke in unison. "Where's Hilda?"

"I'll go get her." Orla offered. "You go in and help Srykar, I'll go get her…" her voice drifted off as she swept her gaze over the rolling hills. "Oh there she is!" She pointed to the roguish bovine who was devouring the brambles a hundred metres away.

Seven nodded, giving her leave to retrieve the animal. "I'll fry some potatoes for you."

As she jogged away she shouted back. "Don't you dare! I have trouble enough staying fit with Srykar's cooking!"

He laughed, confused at her vanity, then limped back to the farmhouse, keeping his hand on the fence for support. Aromas of marinated beef drifted out the door as Seven stepped onto the porch causing his stomach to growl and making him liven his pace.

Before he took a step past the threshold, the wind picked up and carried with it a faint stench that made his hackles rise. Seven's eyes widened in horror. "Orla!" he roared as he spun around.

* * *

**Thoughts?**

**And yeah, Seven... he likes Orla just a mite. I suppose I should admit now that part of this story is influenced by Beauty and the Beast, particularly Disney's version. Also, anyone notice that charr = The Beast just with an extra pair of horns and ears? I did, and I can never un-see the comparison.**


	2. Act 1: Chapter 2: Vicious Mark

**If you think you saw this story before, you might have, I took it down and re-edited it. It goes much farther into the story now, with fewer flow problems!**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Tyria is a world belonging to Arenanet and NCSOFT in the form of the Guild Wars franchise.

I also only in part own the Foundation-Hub (. org) unofficial universe, in which this story coincides.

* * *

Chapter 2: Vicious Mark

Orla caught up with the rogue cow, Hilda, and laid a firm hand on her side. "Come on you grand dame. Time to go home."

The bovine looked at the girl with an expression that seemed to question Orla's intelligence. To relieve the girl's lack of understanding, the cow took a step back, showing the binds which tied her to the hedge.

"Who did that to you–?" immediately, Orla realised she had been lured into a trap. Her fear was confirmed when from the hedge three men, clothed in dark leather, emerged and surrounded her.

"Hello young one," one of them said in a smooth, sultry voice.

Bandits? Here?!

She turned to look at the speaker. He was young, but with chiselled features and dark complexion. His noble Ascalonian features made him very handsome, but something behind his eyes made Orla cringe on the inside. However, the young woman maintained her composure. "Excuse me, but you and your fellows don't belong here. If any of the Diessa patrols sees you, they will give no quarter. You should leave, now." She gave her sincerest smile to emphasise that she wanted no trouble.

The attractive leader chuckled. "Oh sweetie, don't worry about us. We know the patrols. We also know your masters are nothing but a cripple and a geezer. You can escape, why not? You don't belong here."

She tried to keep smiling but knew she resembled a sick hylek, and she worried that her raging heartbeat was audible. "D-don't worry about me, I'm well fed and cared for, I think I will just… stay, but thanks for the concern." her voice wavered as he stepped closer.

With a gloved hand he brushed her cheek tenderly. "Well you know what I think, you want to get out of here, I can see it in your eyes. We'll even rid this sorry land of two more scum-cats for you."

_Actually what I want to do is break your fingers, _she thought while trying not to glare.

She recalled a moment from last week. A notice letter had been sent out to the Diessa ranchers, so she perched on Srykar's knee to read it with him. One of the topics mentioned a string of murders where ranchers had been attacked. She stopped reading as soon as the article began detailing what had been done to the poor charr. There was one thing she could do to save her friends from a similar fate: Scream.

—-

Orla's desperate cry started a fire burned in Seven's gut, igniting his senses, strength, and willpower. The only thing that kept him from running out bare-handed to rip the source of the man-stench limb from limb was his bum leg. Which in hindsight was a good thing, as it forced him to properly equip himself with his rifle and keep a steady hand as he aimed and fired.

—-

Srykar would often complain how Orla was the source of so much disorder, which in a small way was true, since she had not been through all the rigorous military training.

But, never had the girl seen an action of hers cause such outright chaos. Within seconds of her scream, she felt warm fluid splatter on her neck, followed immediately by a loud 'crack!' from the house. She knew she did not want to look behind her. In her shock, she neglected to flee and found herself tumbling into the hedge with the ruffians.

The bandit leader was furious at how one of his henchmen had been killed right before his eyes, as if to mock him that he could have been hit just as easily. A spray of bullets whistled through the higher branches of the hedge.

Orla could hear Srykar and Seven shouting and roaring in rage. Before she could call out to them a giant arm snatched her around the waist, squeezing the air out of her. A man, larger than any she had seen before, slung her over his shoulder as the group of bandits ran out of the hedge and towards a stand of wooded hills.

The leader shouted to the large man, "Some stealth would be nice!"

Orla's carrier stopped, offering her a chance to get an upside down view of her captors. Besides the leader and huge man carrying her, there was also a slender, blond young man, or a woman with short hair, she could not tell, who had not been with the others when they surrounded her. The blond had a great-sword slung over his back. He looked at the big man questioningly. It was then that she felt the air buzz with a strange hum.

The man carrying her thrust his fist out and the world took on a purplish haze. Glancing at her hand, Orla discovered that she and the bandits were transparent as glass. However, she did not have time to stare in wonder. She heard the faint groan of a bow as the bandit leader nocked an arrow. Srykar burst through the hedge, as the arrow shot out of the ward and appeared mid-flight.

"Dodge!" she screamed.

Srykar halted a moment, staring at the oak shaft protruding from his chest and shrugged. "Good shot!" he called. Then he raised his own longbow. "But learn something from a master!"

His arrow went high and long, passing over the bandits' heads then exploded in an black powder flash, destroying the ward. The men and Orla immediately reappeared.

"Got you rats!" Srykar roared, ripping out the arrow from his chest and nocking it as his next shot.

"No you don't!" the blond "man" muttered. He had drawn but a sliver of his great-sword from its sheath, when he vanished from sight, leaving only a blue mirage behind. In a flash of light, he reappeared in front of Srykar, his blade held low, readied for an upwards slice. The blond grinned in pride.

_CLANG_

The blond's sword clashed against Seven's musket barrel, stopping it mid-swing. The charr's eyes were aflame in wrath as he pushed down with his musket as if it were a quarterstaff, defending his elder.

The blond grit his teeth angrily, then flicked his blade down and spun around like a top, bringing the great-sword in a powerful slam downwards.

Seven knew his bent musket did not stand a chance against that kind of a blow, but he raised the ruined gun for his defence as he prepared to move backwards. The barrel was cut clean through and the cherry wood body shattered. At the last moment Seven stepped back to avoid the blade and reached for his pistols. However, the front of his body was sliced as if by the air itself. Blood sprayed out before him as the enemy's transparent, blue aural sword shrank back into its blade.

Orla's heart stopped, her eyes riveted on Seven as he fell, blood still spraying into the air. _Seven! No! Not Seven! _She was helpless, upside-down on the back of a massive man. _I can't do anyth–_

Suddenly, her grieved face went blank, as if she was asleep. But her body moved on its own accord, twisting upwards and snatching the huge man's muscular jaw. With a quick twist, followed by a snap, he was dead and she was free.

The bandit leader grinned at the blond's handiwork, glad he had him in his group. "Hey, I'll take the girl Hurs–" He turned in time to see his large partner fall over dead. He was so distracted, he did not notice the girl's hand grab his neck,. Without taking another breath in this world, she forced him to the ground, followed by a bone shattering punch which imploded his chest cavity.

The last thing he saw were the blank eyes of his killer.

—-

Srykar drew his dual headed axe as he faced off with the blond guardian. Both swung their weapons, but they never made contact. The charr's adversary had vanished. He looked up in time to see the petite swordsman fly through the air and smash into a venerable pine. Looking down, Srykar saw Orla recoil from her kick, then take off in a blur after her victim. As she approached the pine, she made a flying roundhouse kick, which ended in her recklessly smashing her shin into the guardian's gut. Despite the inefficient and off kilter strike, the results were devastating. A crack ran up the pine and the base was obliterated, effectively gutting and prostrating the old tree while smashing the human into an unrecognisable pulp.

But in her rage, Orla was hardly done. As her power waned she straddled her enemy's waist and repeatedly punched what looked like was once his jaw. With every strike she shrieked as tears streamed down her face. Glowing, yellow, branchlike lines had grown up her neck to the base of her jaw and began to exude smoke along with the stench of burning flesh. But if the marks were causing her any pain, she was oblivious to it. Finally, covered in the blood of her enemy and her own, her fists slowed. Yet still she continued striking, breaking yet another of her knuckles.

Large arms wrapped around her middle and pulled her back. She tried to resist but she was already so weary. Finally her senses returned and she heard a frantic voice.

"It's alright Orla! I'm ok! Stop! You can stop! He's dead."

Orla let out a relieved sob as she twisted around to see Seven's worried face.

He smiled at her. "Well, it seems you can hear again. I thought you had gone deaf."

She backed away and looked at her friend's chest. There was a line of blood-soaked fur peeking out through his shirt, but the cut seemed much shallower than she had feared. Then she tucked her head into his shoulder and hugged him, but when her hands touched, she gasped in pain and pulled back, looking at her mangled fists.

"What happened?" she asked as she turned her head to look.

Seven started to warn her but was too late. She saw the guardian's mangled remains and gasped, whipping her head around and burying it into Seven's collar while she tried to regulate her breathing.

After a few deep pants she asked, without looking, "Who did that?"

"You did," Srykar replied simply, though his tone seemed to be prying for an answer.

Then she noticed the overwhelming stench of blood and bone. She pulled her face out of Seven's white fur and saw it was marred with blood from her hair and face. She looked at her shirt, her pants, her hands, they were all splattered with the red, stinking fluid. Vague memories filled her head, churning her stomach.

It was too much. She bent over and vomited. Her friend reached for her, but he pulled back, unsure of what to do. Once she finished, she allowed herself to be helped to her feet, keeping her eyes carefully averted from the smashed corpse.

Srykar spoke up, "Crazy rampages aside, let's head back and tend to our wounds. Then you all get to help me bury them so we don't attract unwanted beasts."

Orla nodded weakly, anticipating the grizzly task ahead, while reminding herself that was not much worse than slaughtering cattle. Still, she felt a strange feeling creeping up on her but she did her hardest to suppress it.

I've been through worse,

she reminded herself. _I've had to kill before, before I came here. But, they don't know this… so… how shocked should I act? Do I even need to pretend? I feel so sick. I don't want to become what _he_ wanted.t_Srykar tried to get her attention, "Orla, you well?"

She opened her mouth to speak but instead the world turned dark and she was alone.

A deep voice echoed in her head, mumbling words she did not understand. She would have cried out but her voice was robbed of her. Out of the murk a disembodied hand flew out and its clawed fingers grasped her head holding her in place. Her eyes darted around in terror, recognising the presence. She felt moist breath on her neck followed by five claws piercing her skin, drawing a strange design.

She needed out. She was not going to go through this, not again. Though her arms felt heavy as lead, she raised them, ripping away the hand from her face. Quick as the world changed, it was back to how it should be, the sun was shining, banishing the darkness. Srykar and Seven returned into her view, both having backed away and looking cautiously at her, wondering if they were next to feel her fist.

She tried to smile reassuringly, tell them that nothing was wrong, but the words never left her lips. Instead there was pain, as if someone had set the left side of her neck on fire. Crouching down, she shrieked.

* * *

**Thoughts?**

**I'm just going to say now, that I too am annoyed how similar I ended this chapter and the previous chapter, it bothers me, but I needed a breaking spot.**

***sigh***

**That aside, I hope Orla comes across well, even though she's a bit... ahh... her character goes places (literally and figuratively) so I'm happy with who she becomes later, but in the first two chapters she seems slightly "Mary Sue-ish" to me.**

**Also, the giant man is not a norn here, but he is the huge human model that's apparently possible in Tyria.**


	3. Act 1: Chapter 3: Skin of Secrets

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Tyria is a world belonging to Arenanet and NCSOFT in the form of the Guild Wars franchise.

I also only in part own the Foundation-Hub (. org) unofficial universe, in which this story coincides.

* * *

Chapter 3: Skin of Secrets

Doubled over in pain, Orla continued to shriek. She tried her best to hold her cries, hide her weakness. She could take it, she had felt worse. Once again, unwelcome thoughts of her past returned to her. Claws drawing designs in her skin, the heat of the spell, the damp breath on her face as he whispered incantations, and those cruel eyes that gazed with curiosity into her own.

So absorbed in her memories, she clenched tighter in fear when she felt a clawed hand tug at her collar. She bucked and jerked, trying to break free.

"Calm down!" Srykar roared.

The volume and intensity of the order caused her to freeze, and at last the agony began to subside.

"We need to get her to water." he continued in a quieter tone, "she has burns on her neck and torso."

Srykar and Seven somehow managed to carry the girl all the way down to the spring-fed watering hole.

As soon as she was lowered into the clear water, Orla relaxed, and the last of the burning sensation ceased from her neck and side. Srykar immediately set about removing her bloody garments leaving her in undershirt and slip.

The old charr rose to leave. "I'll go get her some clean clothes. Seven, stay here in case she needs anything."

"Yes sir."

Orla sat up, keeping her head and shoulders above the water. Her body felt exhausted, as if she had run for hours without stopping. She brought one of her swollen hands to brush her cheeks and she felt them smear a thick substance over her skin. Glancing at her reflection, she let out a sob. Blood. Her face covered in it, her hands were stained with it. The blood of three people.

Vigorously she tried to wash the clotting blood away, weeping in both disgust and pain from her broken hands.

Seven grasped her forearms, holding them beneath the water. "Orla, stop! You're going to injure yourself. It's only blood, it can't hurt you." He pulled out a rag and waded to a spot close next to her. "Let me clean you up."

Seven accepted her exhausted silence as assent. Cautiously, he washed her face and, in an attempt to raise her spirits, chuckled and said, "This reminds me of two winters back. Remember when the rain caused a landslide and two of our cows were trapped in haunch-deep mud?"

She nodded and replied, "Yes. You fell, over and over, but when you finally rescued the cows, you were so happy."

"And plastered in mud," he added, relieved that she was talking.

She smiled in recollection, "It took me hours to clean your fur, and in the end we were both soaked."

He laughed as he scrubbed her arms. "And then we fell asleep, sprawled out on the floor by the hearth trying to dry off."

"And we still got sick."

The brief cheerfulness was followed by silence. A state of gloom hung over them.

Orla touched the branched scars on her neck and could see that they went down her side and over her chest. Tears welled up in her eyes.

Seven immediately panicked. "Wh-what's wrong?!" he asked.

"I'm just happy… that you're ok." she replied still fingering the scars radiating from her shoulder.

"No. What's it really about? Do the scars still hurt? And your hands are turning purple, you should keep those in the water to cool."

She shook her head, though she lowered her discolouring hands into the soothing pond.

Seven was confused. "Then what's the matter?"

"You wouldn't understand."

He rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I think I can muster the brain cells."

"The scars… they're permanent, aren't they?" Orla asked, struggling to keep her words steady.

"Umm, well they'll fade a bit… but… yeah probably." Seven sat in the water beside her, the water rising to his chest. In all honesty he did not understand her problem. Scars were a sign of honour. Instead he just placed an open paw on her unscarred right shoulder.

The girl scooted closer to her companion, tucking herself against the side of his chest. After a few moments of silence she started to speak, "It's stupid, I know. I should be glad I'm alive, that you're alive… but… my face." her last words were barely a whisper.

Seven felt so stupid. All too often he would forget that his assistant was not a charr, but a human. "I'm sorry," he muttered, unsure of what else he could say.

Orla sighed and gave him a hug, careful to not use her hands. "That's alright. I'm just being silly."

Seven started to say something that he at last had the guts to say, when he heard Srykar's heavy footsteps.

"Hey," the old charr barked, "Will you couple of fish get out of there?"

Seven reversed normal roles and considerately, though clumsily, helped Orla out of the water and into the giant towel Srykar draped around her.

"Once you're dry I have some clean clothes for you, little kit."

Orla smiled at his term of endearment. "No, the towel is enough for now. I just want to go home."

—-

The songs of crickets and frogs penetrated even the thick walls of the farmhouse in the late spring night as Seven tried to make himself comfortable in a chair. He had let Orla use his bed, certain his leg could put up with one night in the cushioned chair in front of the hearth.

Srykar sat in the chair across from him staring at the crackling embers in the ancient Ascalonian hearth. "Seven," he barked lowly, "we need to talk about Orla."

"What do you mean?" Seven asked, confused.

"We can't keep her here."

"Why not?"

"Did you get a look at her neck?"

"Um, well yes, it looks like some sort of acid burn, but from the inside."

Srykar leaned forward in his chair. "Seven, she's been hexed, badly, and it has been there for a long time."

"I -?" Seven stopped, sinking back into the chair. After a moment of silence, he continued, resigned, "I knew… I knew this wasn't just some kind of burn. But still, I hoped – I… it's just that I thought hexes don't normally make someone stronger."

Srykar explained, "It's not an uncommon practice among the Flame Legion, for the more cautious slavers, to place hexes on their merchandise. It's to keep them under control."

Seven made his disgust at Orla's treatment evident with a sort of low growl.

The elder nodded in agreement of the sentiment and continued, "Usually they disengage the hex after they are sold, and that was done. But sometimes, if the one who cast the spell is more powerful that the one who breaks it, the hex will not completely disappear. Instead, only some of the glyphs are removed, leading to strange side effects, such as that murderous rampage we saw earlier."

"So, is she going to be alright?"

"No," Srykar shook his head. "I think it's likely to get worse."

Seven almost rose from his seat in panic. "Then we can take her to a mage! Surely there is one powerful enough."

Srykar shook his head at the young one's suggestion. "Back in the day, I saw many unbroken, long-ingrained hexes. They are very hard to break and cause much physical damage. She will need adequate medical care as well."

"Then we can take her to the Black Citadel! There are many good medics there."

"Seven, she is human. Though there are many healers there who could work on her, they can only offer general medicine. There is no one in Ascalon that would know how to cure this serious of a problem in a human."

Seven could not believe what he was hearing as his hackles rose. "What are you saying Srykar?"

"I'm saying we need to send her away."

The younger charr's jaw dropped. "W-we can't do that!"

"Listen, I have–,"

"No we can't! Have you forgotten these last two years?!"

"Of course I haven't!" Srykar snapped in a barely contained growl. "I also know that both of us have grown far more attached to her than we ever should have. Don't you see Seven? If she stays she might live for years, decades even, but not without immense suffering. If we let her go, she will have a chance to be free, live her life in good health, find a mate, or mates if she takes after me, and die among her own kind sixty or more years from now. Something like that does not happen for a human in Ascalon."

Seven glared at the floor, his stomach twisting around and around inside him. The retired legionnaire was right.

Srykar sighed wearily. "The best way we can show, er… care," he grimaced awkwardly, "is giving her this chance."

—-

Orla bit on the quilt that covered her to keep from sobbing. She had not heard much of the conversation, but she heard enough. Her heart was a dancing whirlwind of emotions. She dearly wanted to stay, she was happy, and most importantly, she made Seven and Srykar happy. However, at the same time she knew it could not be. Like dozens of serpents she could feel the scars under her skin burn away at her flesh, slowly consuming her.

Still, there was a tingle of excitement mixed in. She would be going to the human land, Kryta, where she could be among others of her kind. The idea both made her overjoyed and very scared. Would humans like her? She had grown up among charr, the only people she ever cared for were horned felines. Would that be a problem? It all felt so strange.

She closed her eyes tight, hoping that maybe she would wake up and all that had happened would be just a dream, and that tomorrow, and every day after, she and Seven would be guiding the cows through pleasant pastures.

—-

A few hours later, Orla was startled awake by a massive clawed hand on her shoulder. Her eyes peered into the gloom up at Srykar's massive face.

"Shh, kit, get up. We need to talk."

She rose and stretched. "What time is it?"

"Early, hurry."

She followed the veteran out to the homestead's porch.

He turned his back to her. "First, my kit, I believe we share a common… acquaintance."

Orla yawned and replied in monotone. "Yes, his name is Seven and he's indoors, warm, and away from the bugs."

The old one shook his dark mane. He meaningfully touched her burned shoulder rubbing a clawed finger at the base of her neck for effect. "I think we both know a certain someone."

The girl trembled like a leaf. A single word escaped her quivering lips. "Caelmurg…"

Srykar looked deeply concerned by her reaction. "He was the one who hexed you, correct?"

All colour had drained from Orla's face. The base of her neck began to throb at the memory, of a long, coarse tongue and sharp teeth that once dug into her collarbone. But her mind could barely imagine the pain, it was absorbed with the sight of that charr's smiling, curious and cold eyes that looked back at her as she had writhed in pain and disgust.

Srykar could not bear to watch the girl's face as she relived the memory. "Orla, you don't need to tell me what that dog did, but you might have to when you go to the humans so they can determine the hex he used."

She nodded and shook off the nightmarish image.

Once he had her attention Srykar continued, "There is a group of humans allowed safe passage through these lands this time of year, provided they cause no trouble. I'm friends with their leader, a Krytan merchant and scholar named Limmock. If he doesn't know how to cure you, he knows someone who does."

"So I'm really leaving?" The girl's eyes filled with unshed tears. She looked away at the night sky.

"So you overheard?" Srykar pried, as he wrapped her in a gentle embrace.

She nodded and squeezed him back with her bandaged hands. Her arms just barely reached halfway around him. "There doesn't seem to be any other options. But I promise, somehow I'll come see you."

Srykar tactfully refrained from laughing at the absurd vow. Peace was not something that would come to Tyria anytime soon.

He was surprised when Orla seemed to reply to his thoughts. "This world doesn't make any sense." she muttered, holding back her tears. "So someday, I'm going to find a place where goodbye is not word."

"Shh, kit, you should go back to bed now."

"Yes sir…" She gave one more, tight squeeze to his huge body.

He cautiously returned the embrace and whispered, "Don't tell anyone of what we spoke of tonight, especially Seven. Let him continue to think that thing on your neck is just a slaver's hex, we clear?"

She nodded and walked back to the doorway where she stopped and whispered, "Thank you, for everything."

For a long while Srykar remained on the porch. _ My sire would be bent over in laughter if he saw me now, doting on a _human_ girl, then he would beat me senseless. Love does crazy things. I thought I had avoided that word._

* * *

**Thoughts?**

**First chapter of just... fluff... but hey, I like it. It is difficult to make a convincing scene with charr being all sentimental, but hey, these chaps have been out of the war-zone for several years, they probably can get away with some emotions besides "Wanting-to-tear-my-enemies-to-pieces-in-the-most- bad-kitten-way-possible".**

**Run on sentences, ho!**


	4. Act 1: Chapter 4: Parting Fates

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Tyria is a world belonging to Arenanet and NCSOFT in the form of the Guild Wars franchise.

I also only in part own the Foundation-Hub (. org) unofficial universe, in which this story coincides.

* * *

Chapter 4: Parting Fates

The next morning, Srykar bustled around the farmhouse as a mother hen would whose chicks were run amuck. He fussed endlessly with Orla's pack, making certain she had everything she needed.

"You remembered to grab a knife from the shed?"

Orla nodded, ignoring the fact that it was the fourth time he had asked. "Yes, and I have a proper whetstone because," she lowered her voice in an attempt to mimic his baritone, even adding in guttural snarls for effect, "'Norns and humans are incompetent at sharpening tools properly.' 'Use a shallow angle but not too shallow.' I know Srykar, I sharpened your knives every week."

He looked perplexed a moment. "Huh, that's right, I _did_ teach you. How about your hands, are they better?"

She resisted the immense temptation to roll her eyes. She had learned to sharpen knives under a previous owner, a blacksmith of the Flame Citadel. Slinging on the pack, she backed away to avoid further inspection. "Yes Srykar, my hands are fine. Seven's elixir worked wonders. Don't we need to get going? Your friend will want us to be punctual, right?"

Srykar laughed through his huge canines. "Ha! Limmock? The day he's on time is the day the sun shines in The Mists! But you're right. No reason for us to tarnish the legions' reputation of timeliness."

Spinning on her heel, Orla stretched, enjoying the feel of her warm trousers and lined leather jacket against her skin. They even made the ugly, bumpy scars on her shoulder feel smooth. She had dressed in anticipation for the mountain climb, where spring had not yet woken. Seven stood in the doorway, his bulk only leaving barely enough room for her to pass.

She avoided eye-contact, not wishing him to see the excitement behind her eyes. In all honesty, she did not want to leave any more than he wanted to see her go. She loved this place as her home, but at the same time, she felt eager to go on this journey. Guilt welled up in her chest as she made the last few steps to the door. She held her breath as she passed Seven into the cool morning.

A thick leathery paw grasped her uninjured shoulder, stopping her.

"Orla," he choked out, "Don't forget us, please."

Even though she had not seen his face, the emotion in his voice hit her like a storm. She turned and flung her arms around his neck, squeezing as tightly as she could and burying her face in his pale leather tunic. Her teeth bit her lip lest she speak and start crying so she hoped the hug would convey her feelings. She would never forget him; the charr who never treated her like a servant, but as his dearest friend, even to the point of risking his own life for her. No matter where the road took her, she silently swore that nothing could make her forget the most beautiful years in a life of few joys.

The hug lasted a little too long, so Seven patted her shoulder and nudged her away. "You need to get going."

Orla sighed in relief at the sight of his shy grin. She stood up straight, the top of her head equal with his jaw and gave her orders, "Now Seven, remember to take care of your teeth, don't get in the habit of drinking hard, and," despite her efforts, her eyes started to water. "Know that you are the most important person in the world to me. Stop muttering about how useless you are when you think I can't hear. You are more than just that bent leg!" She stomped her foot angrily. "Drats! I didn't want to cry, look what you made me do!" she scolded.

Seven touched both her cheeks with the back of a claw, wiping up the tears into his fur. "Sorry, I've kept you long enough."

"Right you have!" Srykar bellowed shoving his way past the youths. He turned and gave his orders. "Seven, feed the cattle. I'll take them out to the pasture when I get back. Don't overexert yourself. Take things slow."

"Yes sir."

Seven watched the human girl and the elder charr walk towards the distant mountains until they disappeared behind a low rise. When they were gone, he raised his muzzle to the jagged horizon and roared in anger, sadness, and shame.

—–

The temperature changed far faster than Orla had expected. Less than an hour before she had been tempted to shed the warm, wool-lined leather jacket and just continue on in her adequately covering skivvies. However, now that she was above the lowest clouds her breath froze in the air just after it left her mouth. She shivered as they turned a corner on the narrow mountain path where she saw snow clinging to the sides of the trail. A cold gust blew down the mountain, stinging her face and pushing at her frame. The fear of falling backwards off the path and down the nearby cliff suddenly gripped her.

Srykar must have sensed her fear, or heard her teeth rattle, because he wrapped his burly arm around her and held her close, enveloping her in his cloak that smelt heavily of cattle and charcoal. Together they slowed their pace, in no hurry to arrive at their destination, even stopping several times to admire the view, or catch their breath in the thinning air.

Orla was concerned about her aging friend. The climb was not easy, and she never remembered seeing Srykar exert himself this much, for this long. For a moment she pressed closer to him and closed her eyes. His heart was beating hard, but at a regular pace. She sighed in relief.

"Something wrong?" he asked

"Oh, no, it's nothing."

"Good, 'cause here we are!" Srykar declared as he backed away from her.

Orla looked up to see a crescent of five coloured wagons, pulled by a dolyak each. Colour drained from her face and she felt her heart skip a beat and then race. There were at least a dozen people milling about, _human _people. It was then she realised that she was scared, scared of what they would think of her, scared of forgetting how to act, but most of all, gripped by an ingrained mistrust. These people had lived amongst themselves and for themselves all their lives. And here she was, practically raised by charr, uncertain even of how one greets another human from Kryta. She wondered if free humans said 'greetings' to each other as well, or were there rules? She knew charr etiquette, but would she offend these people? Would they like her?

A couple of the women looked her way. They were wearing such pretty dresses, as if they were walking flowers tasselled with fur. A grey haired man, presumably Limmock, waved and cantered towards her.

Without thinking she dashed behind Srykar and clung to his coat.

"Srykar! You old warcat, it's been too long!" Limmock cried out in cheer as he gave the retired warrior a firm handshake.

"Indeed it has, bonebag, still as slight as ever I see."

"At least I haven't been putting on pounds in my old age." the man replied giving a playful backhanded smack to the Charr's broad abdomen. He shook his hand in pain. "Or not, is that wide girth of yours _actually _muscle?"

Srykar laughed. "Hardly!" He gestured at his gut, "I just make sure to package my reserves right with religious training. But I have cows to feed, so that conversation needs to wait for another day I fear. In the meantime–," he turned around, bringing Orla into view. "She is the reason I came."

Limmock acted as if this was the first time he had noticed her. "Well, is this the scrawny little bug you _'acquired' _a couple years back? My, has she become a rather comely young lady if I do say so. What's your name, dear?"

After giving an uncertain glance Srykar's way Orla answered the strange man. "My name is Orla. I assume you're Limmock, or should I call you 'bonebag?'"

"Oh! I like her old chum, she's got spice! You teach her that?"

He very lightly cuffed her while chuckling, "No, she's just being shy."

She indignantly stepped forward from cowering behind Srykar and stood straight, trying to seem bold.

"So why did you trek all the way up here to see me and bring along this lovely specimen? I'm afraid she is far too young for me, thank you for the thought."

Before Orla could make a scathing remark, Srykar tugged down her collar and replied, "Ever seen one of these before."

Limmock's mirthful face immediately turned grave at the sight of the scars on the side of her neck and the ring shaped mark surrounded by permanent tooth marks. "I see. So she's supposed to come back to Kryta with me then?"

Srykar nodded. "It was dormant for around three years but just activated yesterday."

"Why didn't you examine her body when you got her?" Limmock questioned.

"I did, thoroughly, there were _no_ marks." Srykar replied with a meaningful glare.

"But how do you know how long it's… wait—, you mean the wretch did this again?!"

Srykar's silence confirmed Limmock's accusation; the latter's face turning red in fury, and strangely enough, shame. He muttered just loud enough for Orla to hear, "We could have stopped this."

Her curiosity was peaked, but before she found the words to ask, the aged charr bent down from his eight foot height to look at her eye to eye. "Listen kit, Limmock here is a good man who I've known most of his life. He will take care of you and find you a home. Do what he says; although I warn you, he jokes too much."

Orla looked between the two elders, wondering how long they knew about Caelmurg, and how long they knew each other. Their relationship only seemed stranger. With a gentle pat, she felt Srykar corral her towards Limmock and the wagons. She turned her head as he began to back away. He nodded a salute to her and left.

She kept her eyes on him until the last possible moment when he disappeared behind the mountain bend, after which she turned and looked at Limmock and the rest of the caravan. She considered running back to chase after Srykar, tell him that she could handle the pain, find a way to heal herself. But that would be the coward's path. She was being given a new life, one that she could not disgrace. Letting out a deep sigh, which somehow abated her fears for the moment, she walked towards the travellers.

As Orla neared the wagons, she noted how she was alone among strangers. It was not the first time in her life this had happened, but somehow during the time she lived with Seven and Srykar, she felt a sense of permanence.

She blinked away the tears threatening to fall, telling herself that there was no sense in crying.

As members of the caravan hurried about, preparing to depart, she tried to make eye contact with them, trying to confirm for herself that she had not been thrown among bad people. She trusted Srykar, but that trust was wearing thin now that he was gone. Nothing alarmed her about their stares or smiles, none of them had eyes like the ones from her past. These were good people.

A few minutes later, the caravan started towards the mountains. The axel wheels groaned and the dolyaks bellowed amongst themselves, bemoaning their woes. Orla found herself rocking back and forth on a bench inside one of the wagons. Two brightly dressed, beautiful women sat across from her. Silver and copper ear and nose-rings adorned their faces. They smiled at her, though did not speak, not as if any speech would have been possible without shouting over the rattling wheels and mooing cattle. She gave her best smile back.

She wondered at their skin too, so much darker than even her brownest tan after a long summer in the fields. They had no blemishes, however, as if their faces were made of the smoothest satin worn by a general. Orla felt rather bland in comparison, not that she ever felt a need to compete in beauty, but it was still humbling for her to be around them.

Noticing their eyes drift to the lower left side of her face she realised her scars were showing. In a moment of vanity, she untied her bangs and forelocks from behind her neck, and allowed the ruddy hair to conceal what she could.

She huddled into the thick quilts, allowing herself to be lulled into a fitful sleep. The caravan continued on through the narrow pass, as covetous eyes watched from above.

* * *

**Thoughts?**

**And so ends the first sub-arc, and the beginning of the second sub-arc actually. Seven is going to be back in the story later, but first there needs to be be some Orla development.**

**Also, my main character in GW2 is Seven Steelwolf, so friend me if you happen to be in game. I'm up to almost anything (Fractals, SAB, WvW, Dungeons, guild missions, roleplay, general exploring etc.) so don't be afraid to ask me if you need a party member.**


	5. Act 1: Chapter 5: Rotten Spruce

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Tyria is a world belonging to Arenanet and NCSOFT in the form of the Guild Wars franchise.

I also only in part own the Foundation-Hub (. org) unofficial universe, in which this story coincides.

* * *

Orla shifted amongst the bedding and blinked dully at her surroundings. The first thing she noticed was that the wagon was still, then how her two fellow passengers were absent.

_Is it already time to set camp?_ She wondered as she stretched, letting out an accidental growl. She put her hand over her mouth, stopping herself. When she was very little and lived amongst the other slaves, she vaguely remembered being scolded for imitating charr mannerisms. But, in the last few years, between the farm and the smithy in the Flame Citadel, she had picked up habits. One of them was growling, and it had to stop.

She peeked out of the wagon. The sun was beginning to disappear at the bottom of a valley to the west. A chorus of laboured grunts and groans aroused her curiosity. After she climbed out of the wagon, she circled it and spotted the source of the commotion. A rotten spruce had fallen down in the pass before them. She could clearly see the remains of its stump fifty or so paces up the side of the mountain. It was not the very big tree, but it was large enough to stop the Dolyaks from pulling the carts over. The men and women of the caravan were hauling away the crumbling, rotten chunks to clear a path.

Popping her knuckles, and rotating her arms, she stretched away any cramps so she could help. She figured mutual hard work was sure to warm the air between herself and all these strangers. As she hastened to assist, and was only a few paces from the spruce, when an uneasy feeling clenched her gut. She slowed down and looked up at the slopes on both sides.

Something caught her eye. She was certain she had seen an elbow sticking out of a rock.She squinted up at the granite boulder, but decided it was her imagination. She was going to return to the task at hand, but she spotted one of the three caravan guards staring up at the same spot she had been. His hand found its way to an uneasy rest on the pommel of his sword.

Orla glanced around. No one else seemed to be nervous, but something was bothering the guard. As nonchalant as possible she approached him.

Once she was close enough, she asked in a quiet voice, "You see something sir?"

He looked at her with one brown eye, keeping the other on the slope.

She nodded, informing him she was aware that something was there.

"Maybe," he muttered bringing his other hand to scratch his dark, five o'clock shadow. He gave her a quick once over, assessing her usefulness. "Listen, I'm going to get a closer look. Follow twenty paces behind me. If something _is_ there, I'll wave twice. Then I want you to hurry, but don't run, and tell the closest guard, or Limmock. Be sure to say I waved twice."

Orla nodded, proud of both her sense of observation, and her boldness to speak all on her own to the first human in at least four or five years, kidnapping bandits excluded.

The guard set his scruffy jaw, and moved towards the slope, while Orla made certain to stay exactly twenty steps behind. She became more nervous as she approached the foot of the wooded rise. Again out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a distant, greyish form, but when she turned her head, it was gone.

Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears once she entered the shade of the trees. An odd, putrid scent reached her nose, a mix of pine, rock moss, and an aroma like that of musky sweat only many times worse. The stench was so overpowering, she almost missed the signal from the guard.

She nodded, and walked back to the group clearing the rotten tree. Finding the closest guard, a towering, dark Elonian, she grabbed his arm.

He looked down at her in irritation. "What? I'm busy."

"The other guard sent me, there's something up the slope–. He waved twice."

Like magic he changed his attitude. "Go tell Limmock that there's a jotun patrol nearby."

On her way to Limmock, Orla pondered what one or three waves would have meant. She had heard about the giants that dwelt in the Shiverpeaks from Srykar, which he simply referred to as "filthy curs." After no more than a minute of searching, she spotted Limmock's head of fluffy white hair a bow shot away.

As she navigated around the busy travellers, she called out to him.

"What's the matter dear?" he asked.

She hurried up to him and muttered. "There are jotun!"

Limmock raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "How do you figure th–?"

A nasally, rattling roar put his doubts at rest. The entire party froze what they were doing.

The old man gripped her shoulders and made eye contact. "Orla, round up the women, and get them into the middle wagon. Keep them there. Then, listen to Mora. She's a guardian of sorts. She'll know what to do."

She nodded and dashed towards the almost cleared fallen tree, trying to block out the sound of massive footfalls and roars. She found the four women of the party already making their way to the wagon, so she joined them.

As they climbed into the wheeled refuge, one of the women, the skinniest, shortest, and darkest one, began muttering to herself and waved her hand before her.

Feeling that magic rippled about her, Orla peeked outside to see a bubble-like membrane grow up from the ground and encompass them, wagon and all. She looked back at the woman. _I suppose this is Mora, _she mused. At first, she had thought the woman to be young girl, but on closer examination, she realised that the she was likely old enough to be her grandmother.

A thunderous crash and the sounds of clanging metal brought the girl back to the current situation. "Um, Mora– ma'am, how long can you keep this shield up?"

The woman replied with a youthful voice that once again confused Orla's perception of her age. "This is one of two techniques I ever learned, and I've practiced them all my life, I can keep this barrier up for hours as long as I stay still."

Orla sighed and tried to forget the sounds of conflict outside. However, the din of violence rose to such a crescendo she had to cover her ears. After several minutes the noise ceased. She lowered her hands and looked at the other women in askance, but they seemed as oblivious as she was to their immediate situation.

A pained cry broke the silence followed by the sound of shifting gravel. Orla looked out to see the scruffy guard she had assisted earlier. Half of his pale face was red with blood. He laid still just a couple metres outside the shield.

For a moment she wondered if he was dead, until he made a deep, gasping breath, followed by coughs which sprayed specks of red onto the grey gravel. She whirled back at the women.

"Can any of you heal?!" She shouted almost at a scream.

The two women either side of Mora nodded.

"Good!" Orla replied then hopped out of the wagon, ignoring their warnings and demands to stay inside until it was safe. She only hesitated briefly at the bubble-like barrier, but mustered her courage. She pressed herself through the thin membrane which felt like a sheet of dry water against her skin.

Once through, she knelt over the injured guard, wrapping her arms under his armpits and began dragging him back to the bubble.

"Wh-what are you doing?" he demanded through weak lips.

"Saving y– drats!" She felt her rear bump against the shield. She kicked herself for her thoughtlessness. How useful would a protective barrier be if it let someone just walk right though both directions?

"Leave me!" the guard ordered.

"No, Mora just needs to lower the barrier for a moment."

"There's no time!"

"What do you mean… dra–," her favourite expletive died in her throat when she noticed the massive pair of grey legs planted just beyond the guards limp feet. Her head tilted up to spot the monster's ugly mug.

"Only a mother could love you." she blurted without thought, making herself seem cocky, when she actually felt terrified. Her gaze fell on the norn war-hammers the beast had in each of his hands.

With a gurgling roar, the jotun warrior raised his left weapon high, as if it was a mere gavel.

Orla knew her life was seconds away from ending, like a bug swatted on a desk. She was about to let out a scream for help, but she realised there was no one to call for. Srykar was miles away by now, probably home with Seven, and not to seem rude, but Limmock did not look like the hero-type.

_I'm going to die right here, _she realised, _Prey to some random jotun ambush. Humorous, if it was not so tragic._

With all his strength, the guard let out a heart rending roar, "Go!"

Startled by the noise, she dropped him to the ground, and took half a step back. She watched as the hammer began to plummet down, no longer was it going to hit her, but the guard alone.

In the next microseconds she realised something. She was angry. Not at the jotun, not at herself, but at the guard. He reminded her of Seven when he was slashed by that guardian. Not again would she be the cause for someone else's pain.

Without another thought, she struck out with all her might.

Time seemed to stop when her fist made contact with the descending war-hammer, then with a flash of golden light, it shattered, its granite, rune-covered head blasting apart, never hitting the intended target.

Bellowing in pain, the jotun dropped the other hammer, and held his mangled hand, retreating several steps.

The guard looked up at his rescuer, mesmerised by the almost flame-like aura which licked at her arms, back, and neck. He could hear her bones creak under the stress of her awakened muscles. His eyes widened in recognition of her ultimate rage. _Juggernaut!_

Orla gawked in wonder at her strangely radiant hands and body, which pulsed with power and pain. "What is this?!" she asked.

The sentry found his tongue and replied. "Why don't you know? It takes years to master juggernaut."

"Juggernaut? What's that?"

"An elite warrior stance–," his words were cut off by a roar, and the ground shuttered under mighty steps.

Their faces turned ashen at the sight of two more club wielding jotun emerging from the forest. In addition, the jotun whose hammer she had smashed rose to one knee and grasped the smaller norn hammer with his good hand.

She was confused because she was not afraid. Power coursed through her body as she felt more alive than ever before. But the thrill of power was tarnished by a familiar presence.

_Though he was not there, she could feel his claws on her shoulder, her arms, her back, tracing a design. All at once she heard the commandment he spoke as he whispered the incantations, "Do not die; live and defend my work!"_

"I'm getting that hammer." she announced. _Wait, no I'm not! Her_ mind protested,_ I'm going to grab the guard and run—why am I moving towards them?!_

Before the sentry could object, the hard packed earth both sides of him cracked beneath Orla's feet as she took off faster than a fleeing hare. In what felt like one step,she was beside the jotun. She brought her fist up and punched the inside of the giant's wrist. His palm opened and she snatched the hammer, whose handle was almost longer than she was tall. With a twist of her hips and a spin, she brought the business end of the steel weapon into the back of the jotun's weight bearing ankle. The creature tumbled face down. At this point the other two grey giants were almost upon them. She abandoned the now crippled monstrosity and dashed to intercept them.

She let out a roar as she raised her acquired weapon. The two jotun both brandished their clubs, ready to strike. But, before she entered their reach, the hammer brought her to the ground, the weight of it pinning her beneath the handle.

She wondered what happened. Her strength was gone, her neck was searing in pain and she could see steam rising out of the corner of her eye. She was stuck, flat on her back, in front of two furious giants.

One of them stepped closer. He swung his club back and hurtled its spiked surface to crush her into girl-pudding.

_Drats!_

* * *

**Thoughts?**

**This was originally half of a chapter, but my poor editor found it to be rather too long. So I cut this one in half too, thus the cliff hanger... and once again it involves Orla. THIS WILL CHANGE!**

**Limmock is an interesting creation of mine. He's an odd one, and his oddness only increases on closer acquaintance. Of course, a human has to be pretty odd in order to befriend an old veteran charr like Srykar.**


	6. Act 1: Chapter 6: Smack Down

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Tyria is a world belonging to Arenanet and NCSOFT in the form of the Guild Wars franchise.

I also only in part own the Foundation-Hub (. org) unofficial universe, in which this story coincides.

* * *

Chapter 6: Smack Down

Three pillars of earth shot up around Orla, followed by an explosion of dust and gravel. After a few seconds, the billowing cloud cleared and jotun and girl alike looked at the three pillars that had halted the club with a mixture of confusion and surprise.

"Get up you twit!" Limmock shouted.

She shimmied out from under her hammer's sapling-sized handle and escaped from beneath the halted club. The earth shook and a line of ground churned and boiled like a pot of stew between Orla and the giants. She got up and looked at the aged man who still held two hands before him controlling the ground.

He glared at her and ordered, "Don't just stand there and look pretty, pick up that lump of metal and help me!"

Orla knew not to argue with orders, so she grabbed the hammer shaft and dragged it back using her entire body's strength. There was no way she could lift it. She was strong, steeled by her years of hard work under the charr, but not that strong.

"Come on lass, where's all that spice?" Limmock urged while telekinetically sending up pillar after pillar of earth to hold the giants back.

Ignoring him, she gritted her teeth and relaxed her mind, trying to find where she got that strength again. But then the burning in her neck intensified as if she had a hundred needles stabbing into her and then they tugged sideways through her skin along the burn scars. She let out a scream and bent over, using the shaft for support.

Limmock's face was turning pale as he shot off stone projectiles that the giants parried and slapped aside with ease. Sweat beaded on his brow. "It may hurt, but if you ever want to see another day stop being a wimp and get back into your rage!"

Orla decided something; she really hated that old man. It did not matter if he was Srykar's friend. The pain intensified further as she embraced the hex's will, then subsided into a dull ache as magic flames leapt from her neck and covered her body once again as she promised she was going to beat that cotton ball senseless.

She hefted the norn hammer as if it weighed nothing. "Once I'm done, you're next!" she roared back at him then dashed towards the giants.

Limmock cleared a path for her through the churning earth. Then he whispered another spell that caused the ground beneath the Jotun to shift back suddenly, making them fall flat on their backs, one of them even landing on top of his comrade that Orla had previously crippled. With one more spell he raised the ground beneath Orla, launching her into the air.

Orla gasped in surprise at finding herself thrown skyward but she realised Limmock's plan quickly. Twisting around, she aimed the hammer at the head of the Jotun lying atop the other. Then she fell and at the last moment she swung her weapon with all her might. She struck the two Jotun like a meteor, skull cracking and chest crumpling, she mortally wounded the one on top and severely injured the one beneath.

Then she turned her eyes onto the third. Two claws of earth grasped the giant, keeping it on the ground. She saw a ramp of stone raise beside it and she knew what Limmock intended. She ran up the rise, which with a sudden push upwards, hurled her into the air again. Letting out a vicious shriek she brought the hammer down with devastating effect, caving in the giant's chest where his dark lifeblood pooled.

Orla looked in disgust at what she had accomplished, but before any sort of shock or remorse could set in the world began to spin around her, colours fluctuating in her vision, and then her vision fell dark.

—-

The sun shone brightly on the blossoming Ascalonian plane. Lilies, irises, lupines, and pimpernel painted the landscape in rich hues of red, yellow, white and blue. _Beautiful._

A laugh… someone was laughing, the delicate jingle of a girl's voice danced through the blades of grass. Her laugh was joined by another, which yapped and yowled in mirth. _Happy._

Orla ran gathering flowers then plopped down, her hands weaving them together into crowns, engulfed in the simple pleasures of a five year old. Her companion, a grey furred charr kit, too young for even the fahrar hopped around her, trying desperately to capture a butterfly in his tiny claws. _Impossible._

They had not met back then… it was much later, so the little girl in a twinkling of eye grew into a youth of fourteen years and the charr ceased his kitten-like leaping and instead sat beside her. He thrust a muscular arm towards the clouds as he roared aloud something that seemed garbled and confusing, but it made Orla laugh. _Sunny._

The wind blew her rusty locks into her face, but before she could brush them out of the way, Seven did it for her with a deftness that defied his clawed hands. With a playful grin he tugged her to his leather clad chest to shelter her from the wind. She smiled. _Safe_.

She snuggled her head closer to the V of his jacket where a tufts of white fur spilled out like a gentleman's ruffle. She breathed. _Wrong._

The scent was wrong. Suddenly the world around her vanished and for the briefest of seconds she found herself staring into the cruellest pair of blue eyes. _Cold._

—-

Orla's startled awake and was confronted by a grey wolf pelt. She sat up and regretted her haste as her sore muscles declared their sorrow.

As she sat up she looked at her surroundings. Everything from the rustic furniture to the plain wooden walls made her feel at home, but the many trophies on the walls and runes drawn above the fireplace told her this was not a charr abode.

Beside her bed, which was not much more than a gargantuan pile of pelts, was a pair of antler horns that doubled as a wardrobe. On it she recognised her clothing she had packed. Rising from bed she slipped on the green wool skirt and a reddish brown coat. In the corner of the room she spotted her satchel which she hefted over her shoulder, gritting her teeth at the mixture of pain and relief that washed over her when every joint in her body seemed to pop at once.

She stopped in awkward silence, unsure of what to do next as she listened for signs of life. She could make out the noise of crowds and conversation as mumbles through the thick walls of the chamber, accompanied by the constant ring of hammered metal. The sound reminded her of the Flame Citadel where she had grown up, just with less snarling, roaring, and growling.

"Perhaps they are waiting for me?" She asked aloud, just to fill in the silence and abate the awkwardness of waking up in a strange bed with no one around for explanation. She walked to the doorway across which hung a large bear pelt. Pulling the thick hide aside she stepped out into a broad, snow covered avenue of Hoelbrak.

The cold air took her breath away at first but then she found herself almost forgetting to breathe at the sight of the city before her. Bizarre, arching rooftops of massive buildings dwarfed the more sensible looking houses and businesses that were sprinkled throughout the valley. After a moment, Orla corrected herself, realising that even these normal houses were giant in size since they were built to norn scale.

Concerning the norn themselves, Orla was particularly impressed. They walked by her as towering giants, head, shoulders, and chest above her. She was tall for a human woman, being able to look almost eye to eye with the average charr hunched over, but here she was not any bigger than a pre-adolescent norn.

Once she began to recover from the initial awe she searched the street for Limmock's party. At first she worried that they had left without her, abandoning her for the sake of convenience. Or perhaps she had been out of it for so long that they had to leave her? But neither seemed right, Srykar trusted Limmock, a _human_ of all races, and if she had been out for days she should feel famished rather than mildly hungry.

So she decided not to lose hope yet. Once she calmed herself, she was attracted to the ringing metal and peaked in the door of a smithy. There she spotted two norn, and interestingly a charr, hammering away at three steel rods. The older of the two norn occasionally barked instructions to the charr, informing him of proper technique. The latter grumbled, but followed the advice with determined focus. A blast of hot air from the furnace brushed her face, bringing with it a wave of nostalgia.

She remembered the day she was bought in the fiery citadel, she was about six winters old. She was in a cage with some thirty men, women, and children, most of whom were screaming and wailing, and at the time she did not know why. The cage was atop a floating chunk of rock, pulled by chains tied to oxen. She looked out at the charr, shackled females, armoured males, bare kits, many of them looking at the cart with amusement as it was pulled to where she knew not. For some reason, a charr made eye contact with her, so she stared back.

His face was empty of any emotion, no amusement, no anger, no pity, just a set of fearsome fangs, and dark eyes. He stopped the cart, and after brief negotiations with the slaver, she was taken out and pulled along to his smithy. The work was hard, but she was never hungry, and never seriously harmed. She would later learn that carts, like the one she had been on, were destined for _entertainment_, which for flame legion often involved feeding their "pets." Such knowledge empowered her to not complain for five years, after which, _he_ came.

She did not care to be lost in the past any longer, and only wondered a brief moment whatever came of 'Mudmane' as she had once heard him called. It was not as though she felt sentimental about her past owner, but she felt obligated to at least occasionally think about him. Leaving the smithy, she began her search for her guardian.

Sure enough, she soon spotted Limmock's outlandish colourful frock as he disappeared into the crowds of some sort of square. She ran down the road to follow him, no longer worried. As long as she knew he was here she had not been forgotten, all she had to do was ask the nearest, sober-looking norn and inquire on the location of some outlandish looking carts.

Just as she formulated her scheme in her mind the world became a blur. Both of her hands had been snatched and she found herself in the midst of maelstrom which, once her head stopped spinning, she realised was in reality a large reel dance being performed by Norn children to the sound of drums and high-pitched flutes.

She found herself passed from one child to another as she was hurled through the perfectly timed dance. The norn children were either oblivious to the fact she was not a dancer, or relishing it, either option irritated Orla immensely. Just as she was adjusting her limbs to grab enough leverage to escape from the wild dance, she was cast off by her would-be partners. Had she been a heavy boned norn lass she would have casually stopped, but being a comparatively flimsy human, she found herself in desperation to gain footing as momentum caused her to stumble and twirl uncontrollably.

_Gong!_

She stumbled back and held her ringing forehead as she cursed under her breath against whatever the hard object was that brought her to a stop.

"You well?" a woman asked in a clipped, efficient accent.

Orla looked up to see a gleaming, yellow trimmed suit of armour decorated with feather and wing-like designs. The wearer was a grinning woman, slightly shorter than her, with raven black hair, a prominent nose and cheerful grey eyes. She rubbed her head trying to alleviate the pain and then realised she still had not replied.

She whipped her hand down and stood up straight. "I'm sorry for running into you."

The woman's smile deepened, and Orla could see her eyes drift to the spot in the middle of her forehead. "Are you looking for someone?" she asked.

"Yes, a caravan of crazy painted wagons."

"Oh, you must mean Limmock."

"You know him?"

"Oh yes, follow me, I know where he is. Name's Kara Finks, of the Seraph guard, yours?"

"Orla Ni Jen, former ranching hand."

As they walked, Kara looked at the girl, who fidgeted and avoided eye contact. She smiled in mock pity. "So, how were you unfortunate enough to end up travelling with that crazy geezer?"

Orla opened her mouth to speak, about to rattle away the whole story, but shut it before it was too late. She glanced at the woman suspiciously. She seemed to exude an air that made one want to tell her everything, and if she did not there would be a price to pay. She wondered whether it was a mesmeric trick, or just her authoritative manner. But alas, she had been silent for too long wondering these things, so she gave a partial explanation, "I'm going with him to seek medical attention. He's a friend of a friend. Do you know something about him?"

The Seraph shrugged. "He's a good sort, a bit odd, but a very kind man. You're lucky you found him. You're from Ascalon correct?"

Orla's surprise spilled into her response, "How did you know?"

"I didn't but you just confirmed it. Besides, your clothes have a very Charr style about them. Are you an escaped slave?"

"Not… exactly…" Orla was beginning to feel irritated with the interrogation.

Kara's face softened. "Oh, I see, Limmock bought your freedom, how kind. What's the medical problem, or is it too personal?"

Orla did not want to give her the wrong idea, but she wanted her prying even less. She nodded.

Kara accepted her answer then looked up and declared, "There they are!"

The caravan was laid out single file before a giant ring that stood on edge. Orla recognised it as an asura portal, like the one Srykar would mention when he would rant about Ebonhawke. Within the ring was a purplish fluctuating lens. A couple asura bounded around the portal adjusting crystals and arguing, always arguing. She smiled at their small bodies, amused by their antics.

Limmock came out to meet the two. "I was just about to go look for you! I sent Kara to fetch you but she probably got distracted on her way."

Kara laughed. "Good thing I did, because she had been commandeered by the norn children for one of their dances."

The old man smiled in amusement.

Orla's eyebrow twitched. "Glad you both find such enjoyment at my expense."

"Oh don't be sour my dear. You need to have your best face on when we arrive at Divinity's Reach. We should be getting clearance through the portal soon."

Sure enough, the asura called in exasperation for them to go.

She gazed in wonder as the carts went through the portal and vanished, however when it came closer to her turn, wonder turned into uncertainty, and by the time she stood right in front of the portal, uncertainty turned into fear. She hesitated, not wanting to make the final step.

Limmock and Kara made a knowing look at one another, then simultaneously grabbed Orla's arms and stepped through. She started to let out a scream but by the time she had a chance to make the measliest of squeaks she was already on the other side of Tyria and looking up at a massive glass ceiling.

"Welcome to Divinity's Reach!" Limmock declared.

* * *

**Thoughts?**

**This chapter had it all. Action, comedy, fluff, back-story, and adventure. I'm quite proud of it. This chapter also wraps up our time with Orla. Chapter 7 will have a new character introduced, and we'll return to Seven Steelwolf.**


	7. Act 1: Chapter 7: Birth and Death

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Tyria is a world belonging to Arenanet and NCSOFT in the form of the Guild Wars franchise.

I also only in part own the Foundation-Hub (. org) unofficial universe, in which this story coincides.

Thanks to peacocklady for contacting me in-game! Your encouragement was grand!

* * *

Chapter 7: Birth and Death

Birds of many colours sang in their grand concert in the balmy rainforests of the Tarnished Coast while the majority of the forest denizens sought out refuge from the coming heat of the day. An exception to this eternal pattern was The Grove, dwelling place of the tree-born, the sylvari. No matter what time of day, these humanoid plants could be seen working, gallivanting, and resting in their rapidly expanding community which blended in perfect harmony with nature. They needed but to whisper to the forest and it would listen to their will, becoming houses, towers, shops, and whatever else the walking and talking plants might desire.

The focal point of all activity was a white barked, massive tree, her branches stretching out as a massive canopy over her children. Large fruit dangled from amidst her leaves in various stages of growth, each one containing a developing sylvari.

A second-born sat in peaceful anticipation, awaiting his turn to greet the young sylvari as soon as they emerged from the fruit, fully grown but mentally unprepared for the world around them. He was certain the next to ripen would be one of the three large fruits before him. His eyes did not move for even a moment to look at the many distractions of The Grove.

Even though he had done this many times before, the excitement was always new for him when it was his turn on duty to see to the newly emerged brothers and sisters of the Dawn. He put his back up against the trunk of the Pale Tree and waited. He ventured to guess which fruit would burst forth first, but he continued changing his mind so he resigned to just wait and see for himself. It was much akin to watching a pot of water heat to boiling. He hoped at least one would emerge before the Day watchers' turn.

He felt something wet splatter on his ankle causing him to reluctantly check what it was. It looked and felt just like the insides of the ripe Pale Tree fruit, but much darker with an unpleasant, putrid stench. He looked up into the tree and noticed another large fruit above him, close to the trunk. Rising and taking a few steps away he examined it as best he could. It was not like the other fruit, this fruit was black and the surface looked wrinkled around the top and swollen oddly at the bottom.

_Splurp._

More of the putrid, viscous fluid erupted out of the side of it like puss from a lanced boil. His throat went dry and a strange sensation filled his gut. He was about to witness something very unpleasant.

Sure enough, with a sickening noise the fruit burst open, releasing its slimy, rotting insides. He let out a cry and stumbled back, catching the attention of the nearby sylvari. The slime splashed down the trunk of the pale tree, leaving a black stain, and pooled at the bottom where he had been sitting.

Within moments, a garden of petal-haired heads gathered around the puddle, gaping in surprise and disgust, uncertain what to make of it.

A hush fell around the scene, even the birds seemed to have silenced. The anxious tranquillity was broken by a gurgling scream. From out of the rotting mass, a female form emerged, screaming in terror. The sylvari jumped back in shock. The slime covered new-born scrambled forward, slipping and stumbling out of the puddle.

The second-born took a step forward, breathing through his mouth, tasting rather than smelling the muck. He extended his hand to touch her, comfort the frightened female. But she spun her head towards him, spraying him with the diseased gunk. Her stunning violet eyes were filled with fear. She let out another ear piercing scream as she shrank away from his touch, rose, and ran, still screaming in terror.

"Wait!" he and several others cried. "Sister! Wait!"

But she did not heed their words. She scrambled away as fast as she could, The Grove becoming a blur of green. The sight of every sylvari she crossed seemed to throw her into an even more frantic state.

Now the Wardens chased her, frantic to stop her from her course. They called out words of comfort, of concern, pleading for their sister to come back. They even invoked the name of The Pale Tree, but to no avail. Soon the Wardens became desperate, weaving walls of magic or calling the plants themselves to slow her down. But she was too swift on her feet and the plants abhorred her presence, unwilling to move closer to her but rather scattered away when called.

The Wardens let out a collective cry of despair.

The plant-girl, rotten slime still falling from her form revealing blanched skin and limp leaves, ignored them, too entrapped in her own fear. She soon encountered the reason for the Wardens' last cry. She shot out of the undergrowth and into mid-air. For the first time since her birth she took a deep breath, almost ecstatic at her escape from the terrifying forest. But her peace was short lived as one more haunting shriek escaped her lips and she fell from the cliff to the waters of the Sea of Sorrows below.

The Wardens halted at the edge, searching the dark waters for any sign of her. Their leader ordered some to go down to the shore and search for the lost one.

A few hours later, when they returned from their errand discouraged, they told the second-born what had happened. Everyone glanced again at the reeking black stain on their mother's bark as sadness clutched at their chests. All but one, who shrank back into the shadows, guilt biting at his darkened soul.

* * *

The late spring sun beat down on Ascalon, causing heat to ripple atop the dirt roads. In the small garden behind the farmhouse, Seven supported himself on his left hand and right knee as he laboured with a small trowel to till the rich soil. He had stripped off his shirt and panted to lower his body temperature and battle the heat.

Two years had passed since they sent Orla away, and in that time Seven had lost much of his remaining juvenile appearance. At seventeen years, the fur on and around his muzzle had grown into a masculine ruggedness, however he had not gotten any taller, and his four horns remained pitifully small, much to his consternation. But he took pride in how he had bulked up. His impressive muscles bulged beneath his fur on his arms, back, chest and abs and he knew he weighed almost two hundred kilos despite his far below average frame. But alas, his strength would never give him glory and honour; it only made life on the ranch easier while lacking a good left leg.

He stopped his tilling and resumed planting the last few starts of various herbs and vegetables. Even though charr were dedicated carnivores, they found that food tasted much better with seasonings, and many of the herbs had nutritional qualities that meat did not give. Had Srykar and Seven been soldiers, their health would not have been as much of a concern, as the next day could bring their honourable death. But on the farm, where their lives were not likely to end so soon, good health made their long, uneventful years more tolerable.

Once Seven was finished tending the garden, he grabbed his crutch and hobbled to the water pump and washed the dirt from his silver fur. After shaking himself dry, he put on his tan, cotton shirt and walked around to the front of the house. He spotted Srykar's massive form a short distance away, leading the cows back.

He was about to call out a greeting when he noticed his companion waver. A few steps later the dark charr collapsed.

Seven hobbled as fast as he could to the fallen retired warrior. "Is something wrong?" he questioned.

Srykar's bleary, dark eyes looked up at him seeming dazed.

"What's the matter?! Tell me!" Seven shouted.

The old one's blank stare came alive in response to the order. His shoulders stiffened and he looked into Seven's blue eyes. "I'm dying sir." he replied. Then he slowly realised he was not talking with his superior and his gaze softened. "Seven, there's a box, beside my chair—you need to keep it."

Seven shook his head in denial and growled, "No, don't talk to me like that, you just fell, you're fine, just get up."

He shook his grizzled muzzle. "Seven, I'm not getting up again, let me speak—,"

Seven cut him off and rose, gripping the larger Charr's shoulders and dragging him towards the house. After only a few steps he lost footing and fell, though made certain to support the elder's head.

"Please," Srykar breathed.

Seven was stunned at his friend's sudden request, when before he would always use orders. He clamped his maw shut and nodded, keeping eye contact.

After a shuddering breath, Srykar continued between laboured gasps. "A box… beside my chair… open it after I'm cremated. And Seven, promise me… promise to follow the contents of that box… wherever they take you."

Seven nodded, cradling Srykar's head around his serrated horns.

"Good," a grin spread across his face. "I can pass in peace then."

"No, I'll get an elixi—!"

"Seven!" Srykar snapped weakly. "Even the most powerful elixir cannot stop time. The mists call me to the Eternal Battlegrounds, my warband is waiting for me. But…" he raised a weak hand to grasp Seven's as his words became more strained. "I have sired cubs with many females… and I abandoned them to their own paths… as many do… I never… expected to live so long… when old age came… and all my comrades and most of my offspring and mates had died in battle… I regretted my life and felt it my lot to die alone.

"But, Seven, I never said this… Seven, thank you… for letting me be the sire I never was, even for just five short years…" A meagre laugh escaped his snout as his voice became weaker. "It'll sound embarrassing… and you can hate it if you want, but son… you've been a good friend… and I've—…"

Seven's eyes went wide as Srykar's body relaxed, and his barrel chest ceased to rise and fall. The sorrow he had been trying to hide behind his neutral expression poured forth in a low moan that echoed on the plain. Seven did not know how long he sat there, mourning his friend, holding his body close, but when he finally moved, the sun was low on the horizon, and his throat was hoarse from weeping.

It was well past midnight by the time Seven finished the funeral pyre and dragged Srykar onto the bed of straw in the middle. He then poured oil over the wood which he laid reverently on top. At last, he lit the pyre with his welding torch. As the smoke rose and the flames crawled over the wood and straw, Seven fell to his good knee. "I'll see you in the mists… father." His sorrowful yowls and sobs shook his body while the fire burned.

Many hours later, after a nap and a refreshing dip in the stream, Seven found himself staring at the box Srykar had mentioned. He had not opened it yet, just moved it to the centre of the room in front of the hearth. After a few minutes of glaring, he at last gave in and opened it. He gasped when he discovered within a bag filled with a lifetime savings worth of gold. Beneath it was a leather binder.

Seven, after a moment's thought, found that the gold made sense, he knew Srykar had always been squirreling away money. The binder was what intrigued him. He untied the hemp string that held the book closed and glanced at the contents. Two folded maps and a four page, folded letter. Seven decided the letter would be of more immediate explanation then the maps so he carefully opened the one labelled 'first' and read the beginning paragraph.

"WHAT?!" he roared, his four ears perking up in surprise.

* * *

**Thoughts?**

**I felt sad writing this. But it's all part of the hero's journey. I'll miss Srykar though, I liked writing him. His past actions continue to play an important part of the though.**

**Also, take note of the time gap. **

**Trivia: **

**-Chapter 1 of this story took place in AE 1321, this chapter is in AE 1323, and the GW2 game is set in AE 1325.**

**-Seven was 15 and Orla 16 in the beginning, now they are 17 and 18 respectively.**

**-This is the shortest chapter to date!**

**-Next update is the final chapter of act 1, and the main plot of the story begins from then on.**


	8. Act 1: Chapter 8: Serendipity

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Tyria is a world belonging to Arenanet and NCSOFT in the form of the Guild Wars franchise.

I also only in part own the Foundation-Hub (. org) unofficial universe, in which this story coincides.

* * *

Chapter 8: Serendipity

_Laughter… giggles… how do I know of these things?_

_ Why do they make me happy?_

_ Sand… soft and warm, trickling down my back._

_Feels nice._

A pair of violet eyes flickered open, beholding white sands and azure blue sky and ocean. She stared blank faced, uncertain of what expression to wear. A pink, wide head with floppy triangular ears obstructed her view.

"Hey, she woke up!" the strange creature cried through a wide mouth in a high-pitched, cheerful voice.

She sat up, sending a formidable pile of sand tumbling off her chest and heard a chorus of tiny cries of dismay. She looked around and saw more of the miniscule people, all pink skinned with large eyes and hair on top of their melon shaped heads and wearing brightly coloured frocks.

"Awe, you broked our sawnd cahsle Fwowa-head!" the littlest one complained while jumping up and down on her stumpy three-toed feet.

The other two joined in, expressing their displeasure with various degrees of mispronunciation.

She was at a loss of what to do. Three tiny creatures were dancing around her, and she did not even know how she got here. She touched her head with her hand and felt her flower petal hair which she somehow knew was a bright belladonna pink. She looked at her skin with wonder. It was pale as the sand but with a slightly greenish tint.

Another voice, a deeper one, called out catching her attention. She turned just in time to see a larger, but still shorter than her, grey skinned creature appear over a sand dune. His hair was a reddish brown and cut flat on top like a tree stump and was clothed in a white and yellow dress shirt and brown pants. His golden eyes looked at her in surprise. "Nook, Tuu, Anza, what are you doing with that sylvari?"

_Sylvari, is that what I am? I thought I was 'fwowa-head'?_

"Come over here!" he ordered. "I told you not to talk with strangers!"

The three tiny creatures skittered away, gathering around at the newcomer's knees. The littlest one jumped and swung from his toned arm.

The sylvari rose from her sitting position.

Immediately the biggest creature ordered the tiny ones to turn around and cover their eyes.

She did not understand his reaction, then she realised something, while those creatures were all wearing brightly coloured pieces of fabric, but she had nothing but a pair of leaves, originating from her shoulder blades, covering her small chest and a leaf which was attached to the bottom of her back and wrapped underneath her to cover her nether parts. She did not know why, but she felt very embarrassed.

She opened her mouth, hoping she knew how to make the sounds that played in her head, and to her surprise she made them without trouble. "I'm lost, can you help me? Please?"

The creature's big eyes softened. He looked down at the little ones. "Run along to your aunt." He glanced back at her. "Wait right here."

And with that, he scurried off over the dune. The sylvari did not have to wait long before he reappeared over the rise carrying a very large blanket. He handed her the cloth, careful to keep his eyes focussed on her face on not more anatomically intriguing areas.

She wrapped the cloth around her and it draped from her shoulders to her knees.

"Thank you," she said bowing a little.

"Do you have any place you need to go?" he asked, attempting to alleviate the awkward situation.

"No, I don't even know how I got here."

"Well at least we know where you came from."

"You do?" her face displayed honest curiosity.

"Yes, that grove, the closest thing you sylvari have for a city. By the way, my name is Urpp, from Rata Sum." He then gestured to the three giggling toddlers. "Those miscreants are my children. You've already heard their names."

She nodded, and realised she was going to have to tell him hers. "My name is…" Her mind was blank. Was she not supposed to have a name? "Where do I find one of these names?" she asked, figuring it the best way to relieve herself of the dilemma.

He was taken aback by the question. "What do you mean _boo_-?" he stopped himself, not wanting to send a sylvari off thinking her name was '_bookah._'

"Well, you have a name. Those three have names. Where did they get them from?" she pressed.

He had to admit, she asked reasonable questions, potentially a philosopher. "Well, I gave them their names just like my father gave me mine."

The sylvari nodded thoughtfully. "Well, since I can tell you are more knowledgeable than me about names, why don't you give me one?"

"A name?!"

"Of course."

"Shouldn't you already have one?"

She shook her head.

Now that he thought about it, he did not know where sylvari got their names. But when he looked at her hopeful face he spat out the first sylvari sounding name he could think of. "Rhiannon." After saying it, he had the sinking feeling he had repeated the name of a Krytan brew, but he did not recant.

Her face lit up in joy. "That's a beautiful name!" She did not know how 'beautiful' could be applied to something she could not see, but it seemed like the right word at the moment.

He scratched the back of his head in embarrassment, overwhelmed by the happy expression he had elicited. "Well come on," he grumbled. "Follow me."

And so the odd pair walked up the dune where the children scampered around them, with their young but haggard aunt trying her best to corral them. They were too fascinated and full of questions that neither Urpp nor Rhiannon could answer. As far as the sylvari was concerned, she had found a safe place and kind people, far away from that vague memory of the woodland of terror and darkness where nightmares lived.

* * *

It took almost a full month for Seven to put all the ranch in order, following the four page letter as if it was law. On the final day, he finished the sale of the cows to the neighbouring ranch and closed the farmhouse for the last time. In the balmy afternoon he made one last, long look around the property, searing the scene into his memory. Content, he set off with all of his necessary belongings in a pack. He looked towards the horizon, over the distant forest and beyond the low hills he could just make out the top of the Black Citadel. It was going to be a long limp to get there.

For several hours, he hobbled along the dirt road with his crutch, keeping his right hand on his holster, ready to whip out his pistol if there was any trouble. He was about to give up all hope of reaching the city by nightfall, and he was considering his prospects of sleeping in a hedge when the clamour of wheels beckoned from behind him. He looked back and saw a giant ox-driven hay cart crest over a hill, then vanish into a valley. It crested two more hills before coming within shouting range.

Seven was about to call out, but the driver, a large charr male with yellow and black tiger stripes, and interestingly dressed in a flashy black vest, shouted gruffly, "Hey there hobbler, want a ride?"

The silver charr sighed in relief and answered. "Yes! Thanks, I thought I would not make the citadel by sundown."

"Well hop on!" he replied, bringing the cart to a stop beside Seven. He rolled his right shoulder stump as if forgetting he did not have an arm to wave with. Seven smiled, recognising the injury as a sign of kinship.

He started to clamber up, but it was a slow process, so the driver put the reigns in his teeth. With his one hand, he grabbed Seven by the scruff and deposited him on the bench beside him.

"Whew, you may be small, but you are a sure lot denser than I thought!" The driver let out a boisterous laugh as he flicked the reigns to get the oxen to resume the journey. "My name's Wick Quickclaw, and yours?"

"Seven Steelwolf, and I owe you one."

"Hey, us ranchers got to stick together." Wick grinned through his big tusks.

The two enjoyed several pleasant minutes of conversation. Seven was taken aback by the three-limbed charr's attitude. He seemed far more cheerful than was normal for decommissioned soldier, not even a hint of cynicism. As the citadel's globe began to loom closer in the distance, Seven's curiosity got the better of him.

"Wick?"

"Yes?"

"I hope I don't seem impertinent, but… what's the occasion?"

"Ha! You wonderin' why I'm dressed like a preened moa?"

Seven nodded.

"I have a mate who lives in the Citadel, she likes to see me looking my best. Makes up for not having a uniform anymore."

"Decommissioned? Me too."

"Yep—, my field days are over." After a quick snort Wick glowered at the much smaller Seven who shrank back. "However," he began gravely, wiggling his stump, "I lost an arm, but Ebonhawk lost a battalion."

Seven looked at his companion in new wonder, until Wick seemed unable to keep back his grin. "Look at you! So gullible! Ha-ha-ha! No… I lost this arm in a scramble with an ogre. But it's not too bad, losing my arm was the best thing that ever happened to me. It won me the most striking female I've ever laid eyes on. I had been trying to get her attention for years! My arm saved her life, you see, but she will never admit to it. Now she's pregnant with our second—and maybe third, and mad as a wet wasp!" He let out a roaring laugh that shook the cart and echoed off of the now looming metropolis.

"She lives in the citadel and works as a butcher. The hay I'm transporting is going to her live inventory. You should come and meet her."

Seven was not so sure about meeting a female who was 'mad as a wet wasp', but he felt it would be rude of him to turn the offer down. He looked up at Black Citadel and a rush of nostalgia struck him from his fahrar days and he wondered if any from his war band were still around.

They rode around the black, metal wall for a while until they reached a corral filled with dozens of cattle. Wick brought his oxen to a halt and hopped down from the bench.

"Dearest honeybee, I'm back!" he called in the most ridiculous tone Seven had ever heard a male utter.

A female voice called back, far less cordially, "Is that a one-armed, bloody snot, flee bitten, whelp I hear?" A slightly taller than average female came into view. Her fur was brick-coloured and decorated by black, irregular ring-spots all over her body. She was clad in yellowish work clothes, which may have once been white, and a leather apron covered in the fluids of her trade. Her scowling face was by far her most intimidating feature. She had a sharp, but graceful feline snout with long canines and bony protrusions at her brows, cheeks, and chin as well as four serrated horns. Her eyes were verdant green which glowed with an angry fire.

"What business do you have showing up so late? You've been drinking again at a tavern, haven't you? So help me, if I smell a wiff of alcohol on y-"

Wick seemed unaffected by the snappish greeting. "Relax, my little strawberry, I just picked up a stray traveller. The oxen were slower because of the added weight." He assisted the Seven down, grunting in exertion.

Seven was beginning sympathise with how Wick aggravated his mate as he was pushed forward almost as a sort of peace offering. He caught his balance with his crutch and looked awkwardly between the scowling female and the male who was gesturing frantically for him to say something. At last Seven gulped and looked the female in the eye then inclined his head politely. "I apologise for delaying him, ma'am."

When he looked back up she was smiling and he was certain he saw a hint of mischief in her eye. She scratched her cheek barbs thoughtfully and examined Seven as if he was a cow brought in for the slaughter. After she paced around him a few times, nodding and occasionally prodding at him she stopped, finished with her assessment. "Well, I've seen taller humans, but he's got a lot of bulk on him. Not bad at all."

Seven's eyes shifted in discomfort. He wondered if he should attempt to flee, draw his pistol and fight to the death, or smile shyly at the compliment. He was still in the midst of his decision making when she spoke up again.

"I'll take him, Wick, you can go. It was nice knowing you."

Wick's jaw dropped in dismay while Seven's dropped in shock at the many possible implications. Just as Seven finally resolved to whip out his pistol and fight to the death against the forward butcher and Wick who was sure to be mad with jealousy, the former let out a mirthful chuckle. Her face softened and she pranced almost like she had become a cub again and leapt into Wick's embrace, squeezing his massive chest.

"I missed you my sweet battle-ax." she cooed. "You've been away too long!"

"I'm sorry my little gorekitten, I'll never be gone so long again." Wick replied, nuzzling his snout into her neck.

"Liar," she replied, tightening the embrace. "You can't make that ox cart go any faster."

"Then I'll lasso a tribe of grawl and whip them double time to bring me back to you, darling salt cube."

Their words soon devolved into a series of low coos and growls while they revelled in their mutual affections.

Uncertain what to do next, Seven just stood awkwardly while he tried not to gag at the over the top reunion. As quiet as he could he began to shuffle away, leaving the lovers to their whispered sweet nothings. However he did not get far before the female broke the embrace and waved towards him.

"Hey, sorry for the joke, I never got your name."

Wick stood close behind her. "His name is Seven. Seven, this is my lovely, ravishing, strong—,"

"Oh cut it Wick!" she ordered, hiding her eyes in embarrassment.

"…magnificent mate, Lakka Bloodstream."

"Honoured to meet you." Seven replied.

"The honour's mine, are you new to the Black Citadel? Wick could show you around." she offered.

Seven shook his head. "No, I grew up here, I know my way around. Besides I have an appoi-, er, an engagement tonight."

"Will you be here for a while then?" Lakka pried in a motherly tone, "Because if so, we would be happy to have you visit. Our cub would love any stories you might have too, true or not."

Seven grinned. "I would like that, thank you."

Wick impatiently scooped up his mate with ease, despite her being almost as tall as him, and carried her past Seven as she protested at being treated like a kit.

He glanced his direction a moment before returning his attention to the perturbed Lakka. "See you later. In the meantime, I need to finish… _apologising_ for my absence." He accentuated his words with a playful lick which she returned.

Seven could no longer hide his queasiness as they left. After a brief gag, which he hoped, rather than believed they did not hear, he limped off, opening up the letter and reading the directions with care so he did not get lost.

It was roughly half an hour later when he entered a certain part of the dark, lower section of the city. In this area, some other races had taken up residence, particularly sylvari, warranting the occasional streetlight. It made this area, the Gladium Canton, opposite most of the lower city in the Iron Legion capital, since charr had near perfect night vision.

Seven counted the doors on the left until number eight and looked at the ankh symbol beside the entrance. _This must be it._ He thought as his chest thumped in anticipation. He rehearsed one more time what he would say and knocked.

"By the six! Who is it at this hour!?" an angry voice shouted. The door opened to reveal an aging man, his hair greying and his face rugged and square. He glared down at Seven, standing at least six inches taller than him. "What do you want?"

Seven's ears perked in surprise. The man's voice was so gruff it put some charr to shame.

"What? _Cat got your tongue?_ Speak u-p!" his voice trailed off at the sight of Seven's crutch. He sighed heavily and his attitude became a mite pleasanter. "You're Seven. Srykar told me you would be coming soon. I assume the old cat has breathed his last has he?" he sighed, his face softening, "Well, stop gawking like a kitten at a yarn ball, come on in, I'm not getting any younger!"

_So much for rehearsing, _Seven thought, _I'm not even getting a word in and he knows everything about me!_

The man was the most intimidating human Seven had ever come across, and he knew already he was not going to speak until permission was granted. He entered in as fast as his bum leg would allow and found himself in a bizarrely decorated room which lacked any resemblance to the plain, black exterior of the building. On the inside was what looked like a kind of printed paper covered the walls and smooth hardwood tiles were on the floor under his paws. Seven had never entered a more un-charr space in his entire life. He wondered if the homes in Divinity's Reach were decorated like this.

The grizzled man plopped down on a wooden chair behind a small desk and gestured for Seven to sit in a much sturdier seat opposite him. Once he was settled the man spoke up again.

"Listen, don't take my being here as anything special. I only came to the Black Citadel after the recent truce because I could make money here without those insufferable pansies back in Kryta breathing down my neck. Your treatment is not because of my acquaintance to Srykar or Limmock back in our Lion's Arch days. So don't expect any niceties from me! Pay the gold promised to me, get better, and don't talk unless you are singing my praises throughout this gods-forsaken scrapheap! Do you understand?"

"Ye-"

"What did I say about speaking?" he snapped.

Seven got the point and just nodded.

"Good. Depending on how bad you're banged up, you could be better in a mere four months or as much as four years. It's your own decision how fast you heal. In the meantime, you can stay in the bedroom, the door to your left, as my first inpatient. You can come and go as you please, but remember, that leg is mine until I'm finished with it. Don't. Screw. It. Up! Any questions?"

Seven shook his head.

"Good, I think we will get along _famously_." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Seven realised three things at that moment: first, this was the least pleasant healer he would ever encounter; second, the previous statement was probably the most beneficial factor towards a swift healing process; and third, he was going to be spending more time than he intended around a certain pair of nauseating love-moas.

The old man picked a book from his shelf and started reading. Seven could only take that action as a dismissal. Grabbing his bag, he rose and entered the door to his room. After turning on the light he discovered a cosy space with a charr-sized bed, a bookshelf with a sampling of various topics, and a small desk with a sturdy chair before it.

Sitting on the firm bed he sighed, looking out the small window into the dark street. After a few quiet moments of listening to the clanking of distant machinery, he reached into his bag and pulled out his sketchbook. Since he was going to have a lot of spare time, he figured that he might as well work on the designs for a multi-purpose motor.

He flipped through the pages and stopped. A heavy breath of sadness escaped his chest. On the bottom of the page were the beginnings of the motor structure, but then the straight functional strokes morphed into gentle, gliding ones forming a picture of Orla, frozen in time, pack on her back, looking towards the outer edge of the page. Framed by her hair blown about by the breeze, her face was filled with the expression of eagerness she had tried so hard to hide from him.

He fell back onto the bed, repositioning his lame leg and lay on his side while staring at her image. His claws traced her jaw. He had purposefully drawn her without the scars on her cheek, because he knew that was not how she saw herself, and it would never be how he saw her.

He wondered if she still remembered him, if she was happy in her new home. He wanted to see her, to know that she was fine, not just hope. To know she still remembered him.

At last exhaustion from the day's long trek caught up with him and Sleep claimed him into her merciful embrace.

* * *

**Thoughts?**

**I'm just gonna say now, the charr sap between Wick and Lakka was weird for even me to write. I mean... I was trying to figure out how charr affection would work, provided their... umm... ****_different_**** biology when compared to humans/norn/sylvari. Not to mention, the cultural differences (which on closer examination makes charr the most similar of the big five races to humans in my opinion.)**

**Well, I hoped I pulled it off! I had to get some inspiration from listening to the chatter around the Black Citadel in game. The ambient dialogue of GW2 is some of the best and very amusing at times.**

**In closing, this is my longest chapter yet, and also brings the close of the opening act, So Long Halcyon.**


	9. Act 2: Chapter 9: Odd Pair

**Spoiler Warning!** If you have not read Ghosts of Ascalon this chapter contains HUGE spoilers for it.

**Note:** I just want to thank the readers for your support. I've been unable to write for a while due to getting a new job and moving to be closer to said job. It's been a crazy month. So, without further ado, enjoy the second act of the Dance of Lead saga!

* * *

ACT II: A Bird Drawn in Blood

Chapter 9: Odd Pair

The moon floated low on the western horizon, signalling that in a few hours the new day would rise. Cold western breezes carried the scents of life, cattle, wet earth, and the first blossoms of spring. The wind shifted, blowing from the east, nature's breath, now sinister, carried an evil prescience from where only death reigned. For in the east, running from the distant north to the far south, there was a long, purple scar, The Brand, a festering wound inflicted by the mindless will of an elder dragon.

Where this crystalline desolation and green fields touched, was a bizarre place. Half the sky was peaceful night-time, and half a tempest of inky clouds and lightning strikes. It was near this divide, just a stone throw from the violet hell from which the sounds of corrupted and maligned creatures echoed, a large pile of stones, both branded and untouched, were stacked into a small mound. A grave. From the mound a small, but robust, tree had grown, spreading it's comforting shade, sheltering the monument from the drifting ash.

A cloaked figure dressed in billowing, dark purple fabric, emerged from The Brand. Tiny, leather clad feet stepped over the young grass, as the visitor came to pay her respects.

From under the hood peeked out a greenish, off-white face. Sorrow creased the smooth bark that formed her 'skin'.

"Greetings," she said bitterly. "My name's Rhiannon. You gave me your dream."

She paused as if expecting some sort of reply. Then she removed a glove from her hand, brushed aside a large, pink petal which stubbornly fell out of line with the rest of the lily-like petals which grew from the top of her head.

Slowly, she extended her uncovered hand to touch the pile. Rhiannon bit her lip until golden sap began to seep through her teeth. Her knees bent and she curled down into as small a space she could, keeping her hand on the rocks.

"I thought there was one who I could understand," she muttered to the pile. "But even you have met my good friend, death, Killeen. Now Soundless, I shall ever be."

Hours passed as Rhiannon stayed still as stone, hunched down in a little ball, while her long cloak was tugged and played with by the winds. As the sun rose over the craggy walls of the greenery filled copse, the light rejuvenated her weary body. She opened her eyes and saw what she could not before.

On the burial mound lay a single, withered flower, placed there by someone not long ago. An iris, red as human blood, she had seen many in fields on her journey through Ascalon, hunting for the only one of her kind that did not cause her to fear. Her heart leapt with an almost bubbly joy. She stood up straight, gazing down at the wilted flower. Confused laughter escaped her lips.

"So, though you are now but a dream to me, someone else remembers you!" Her face became thoughtful as she scrutinised the mound. "Is… is this what you wanted me to see Killeen?" She touched the stones tenderly, leaving behind a shell she had picked up the day she departed Urpp and his family to find her only sister born of the tree.

She climbed out of the sanctuary and onto the grassy plains. Her eyes fell on the distant smoke rising in the northwest, signifying habitation. Whatever the place was, she knew that it would be where more of those bulky, feline warriors lived. Unaware of anything better to occupy herself with, she started off towards the smoke, only briefly turning around to wave to Killeen in gratitude.

_If someone hears me, there is a sound. I'll find my sound. I'll find someone who hears me. And I will be soundless no more._

* * *

Bubbles rose in the vials, flasks and beakers arranged together with clear tubes twisting between them, carrying various coloured fluids.

Seven examined the lab with care. He grunted in approval and opened the valve on the lowest flask, filling a small bottle with pinkish fluid. He carried the new mixture out into the examination room where the old healer was inspecting a young charr's healing wrist.

"Lewis," Seven addressed the healer, "I finished the elixir."

The old man almost forgot to look perturbed at being addressed by name, a fact Seven found pleasing. "Well, give it to him, we haven't all day." The elder human growled.

Seven obliged. The patient looked with suspicion at the fluid, but plugged his snout and swigged it down.

After a few coughs, the charr's face lit up as he moved his wrist experimentally. "You fixed it! I went to every healer I could, but in a couple days you fixed it! I get to stay on the front lines!"

With that, the feline jumped off the bed and lumbered to the door. He turned around just before leaving. "Do I owe anything further?" he asked suspiciously.

Lewis shook his head. "No, you've paid, unless you have any tips."

The charr shook his head curtly but still felt like he had left something undone. Suddenly he straightened his back and placed his arm across his chest in salute.

Lewis stared in confusion. "What's he waiting for."

Seven rolled his eyes as he pounded a fist to his own chest. "For you to salute back."

Grumbling Lewis followed his example, and the charr vanished out the door, eager to re-join his legion.

"Well doesn't that warm your heart?" the old man asked sarcastically, "I suppose you're going to make a ridiculous show of your gratitude too?"

Seven's four ears perked up between his horns. "Oh, that's right! Today is the day isn't it?"

"It should be," Lewis grumbled. "Assuming you healed up correctly from the last treatment. I don't see you limping anymore. Well, come on! Let's get your last exam over with."

* * *

Two hours later, as the sun rose high in the sky over the Black Citadel. Seven was in his room, packing his belongings, which were not nearly as meagre as when he arrived in the city. With the money he inherited from Srykar, he had been able to purchase new clothes, including a pale leather engineer's jacket with all the hidden pockets he could desire.

Furthermore, with what he earned from making elixirs and assisting Lewis, he purchased a state-of-the-art monocle, worn like an eye-patch, with special, magic optical filter lenses developed by a quite grumpy, and possibly insane asura. Much to Seven's relief, the monocle worked splendidly and was his go to tool for working with enchanted machinery parts and it had a lens that corrected his off-balanced sight from overuse of his dominant right eye.

All these things were trifles though, and were nothing to the thrill of standing evenly on two feet for the first time in five years. He admired Lewis' handiwork, his left leg had come from being withered and skinny to almost as fully muscled as his right. He could jump, walk with only the slightest limp, and in theory run, though he had not actually tried yet. The Gladium Canton did not provide much running space in the overcrowded huts and scattered potted gardens.

Slinging his pack on his back and strapping on his monocle, he left his room, bare and empty of any sign he had been there, save the stack of elixir formulas on the desk for Lewis. He looked back as he shut the door, paying one last respect to his living quarters.

Seven was not surprised that the doctor was nowhere in sight. He knew Lewis had grown to respect him as a skilled chemist, but apparently not as a friend who would say farewell. Departing the small office, he was confronted by the now familiar sights, and smells, of the canton. In recent times, sylvari had arrived in droves to the under-city, planting exotic flora throughout. No one was certain of their reason for staying, other than simple curiosity. Still, they caused no trouble with their charr neighbours, and helped make the former disease ridden slum into one of the more attractive parts of the city, at least from Seven's perspective, who felt homesick for the wide open fields and cool thickets to the northeast.

His hand drifted to his pocket, touching the letter within. He had read its contents many times, and knew the next steps by heart. With purpose to his stride, Seven trudged through the twists and turns of the slum until at last he took a long system of ramps and stairs and emerged into the fresh, cooler air of the Black Citadel surface level. He came to a crossroads, one route towards the new Asura gate, the other towards the vendors.

_I should probably pay one last visit to Wick and Lakka,_ he decided, taking the wide, cog-paved street towards the eastern part of the city. He would have fulfilled his task uninterrupted had he not heard a commotion from amongst the vending stalls.

Stopping, he glanced over at the canopies of the rustic market. Angry roars seemed to come nearer and he caught scattered commands: 'Get her!' 'Don't let it get away!' 'My leg!' and a plethora of violent expletives. Seven would have just kept walking, certain that whatever was the matter, it was none of his business. But his attention was grabbed by a crashing noise. An entire group of canopies collapsed and Seven snatched a glimpse of a small, dark-clad, probably female, figure leaping out of the falling canvas. She was being pursued by Iron Legion charr, but they were clearly not members of law enforcement, judging by both their lack of uniform, and their grossly rough treatment of the vendors and customers who scurried about to avoid their rampage.

_Curiosity killed the cat,_ he cautioned himself even as he moved towards the chaos.

* * *

Panted breaths rattled beneath the midnight purple hood of the pursued woman. Her feet lightly landing on barrels, tables, carts, and the occasional shoulder before she took off as graceful as a sparrow. Violet eyes chanced a glance behind her, seeing that despite her best efforts, her pursuers were tireless, and gaining on her. She was not certain, but suspected that she saw an elementalist among them using air magic to hasten their steps. She turned a corner and a cart was right in her path. With casual grace she vaulted herself over the vehicle and flipped mid-air. However, as soon as her feet touched the ground, the cart burst asunder, knocking her forward and sending her sprawling on the metal plated ground as debris scattered around her.

She brought her arms underneath her and was about to push herself up when a large, leatherclad charr tackled her, flattening her to the ground under his weight.

She looked over at the charr's straw furred muzzle and winced at his hot breath on her face as the feline panted from the exertion of the chase. His fellows surrounded her, ensuring no possibility of escape. His claws dug into her shoulder as her flipped her onto her back and ripped off her hood. They all looked surprised at her pink-petaled head, and pale green skin.

"A. sylvari. eh?" he gasped between pants.

"That is what I am," she replied curtly. "Now if you would unhand me, perhaps we might talk like _moderately _sentient people."

His claws dug deeper into her shoulder, as he still weighed her down with his abdomen.

"You're hurting me." she declared flatly.

"Like I care!" he roared. "What do you think you were doi-?!"

Her image shattered and vanished, followed by illusionary, violet butterflies fluttering around him as the straw-fur grabbed at his head whilst his mind was wracked to the point of physical agony.

The group of tired soldiers searched around them, nostrils flaring trying to spot, or smell their quarry.

"Attention bookahs!" a bubbly voice called out.

They looked to see the sylvari sitting prim with legs crossed on a balcony overlooking them. "Perhaps you should all excogitate your behaviour? Examine the disarray you've manufactured. Won't your superiors be displeased?"

"Not if we catch you they won't!" one of them shouted.

"Imbeciles all of you!" she called, shaking her head in pity. And with an impertinent sticking out of the tongue, she dropped off the balcony into the jungle of stalls.

The warband rushed her direction.

"I see her!" one shouting, running to the left.

"No, she's over here!" another corrected, pointing right as a pink tufted head vanished around the corner.

"You're both wrong there are two- wait…" several of the dumbfounded felines looked at two perfect copies of the plant woman, who stopped long enough to wave and shout out a couple polysyllabic insults, before they too dashed into the market jumble.

Roars and expletives condemning all mesmeric arts could be heard in profuse amounts over a vast area as they scoured the city for the troublemaker.

* * *

Giggles echoed against the dark metal walls of the alleyway. The sylvari stretched to the sky luxuriously and leaned against a wall, looking at the small purse of gold coins in her palm. "So much inconvenience over so little," she muttered.

In the distance she could hear the search parties dying down. Which either meant they had given up, or more likely, their tempers had cooled and they were preparing for a more efficient and organised search.

She remembered Urpp mentioning his mild admiration of the charr reputation of being well organised and hard workers. She sighed, _I've gotten myself into a superfluity of trouble. I should alter my methodology of the mission for rememberers… rememberers? That's not a word!_

She pouted a moment, trying to think of a better word. She envied the asuran superior intellect and verbiage, two things she had tried to emulate for as long as she could remember.

She was so absorbed in her word-crafting she did not hear the 'snap' and 'chink' sounds before her vision was obscured by netting and she fell to the floor. Panic set in as she tried to get out of the mesh, but she only succeeded in tangling herself up further.

From out of the darkness she saw a short but bulky charr emerge, his silver fur standing out against the dark walls.

"I guess my hunch was right," he said as he approached.

"Get back! I'll shatter!" she threatened.

"I'm aware that you aren't a clone, so I'd like to see you try." he rolled his eyes at the suggestion.

She calmed herself enough to look at the newcomer. He was dressed differently than her pursuers. His clothing was not worn, but new and stylish, even sporting a sky blue collared shirt underneath his coat. _A merchant?_ she wondered before asking,"You intend to surrender me to those thugs?"

"Not sure, depends on whether I believe your story." He reached down to the net. "If you promise not to run, I'll get you out of there."

The sylvari nodded to him, "I provide you my guarantee."

He chuckled, in a way she could only describe as very 'un-felinoid' and 'warm.' "You have a liking of long words." His hand reached for a part of the net and tugged, and almost magically, she found herself free of the trap.

She stood up, nodding curtly towards him, "I appreciate your willingness to understand. My name is Rhiannon."

"When one lives in the Gladium Canton, one learns to not jump the gun. I go by the name Seven Steelwolf." He gestured to a stack of containers, "Care to sit down?"

Rhiannon stared, trying to figure him out. She accepted his offer, dutifully saying, "My pleasure," while taking a seat.

Seven let out a deep, rumbling sigh as he sat, then turned to her. "So, what did all of _that_," he pointed towards the market, "have to do with _this_?" he raised the small bag of coinage.

She betrayed the briefest expression of surprise, wondering when he had liberated the purse from her. However, she reigned herself in and began her plea, "I did not steal, if that's what you were wondering. I was merely returning what was taken."

Seven cocked a brow, but remained silent.

"Not two hours ago I was in the market, conversing with a shopkeeper. He was explaining to me the… well that's another story altogether. He was just beginning the fascinating portion when a couple of those brutes showed up and forcefully took the coin from him!"

"Was he late on his taxes?" Seven asked.

"I don't think so. They were mentioning items they wished to purchase with their 'hard-earned money.'"

"And this is where you got in trouble?"

"Affirmative. I informed them what I thought of their actions. The matter would have ended there, had I not insulted their superior… while he was within audible range. Those four auscultators of yours aren't for show! Well, the rest you saw, for the most part. I may have committed a few other acts of… _suitable_ humiliation."

Seven's face seemed both amused and incredulous. His eyes examined hers intently, as if trying to see through any deceptions. "Say, I believe you, where does that leave us?"

Rhiannon grinned, then replied, "The right thing to do is return the money to its rightful owner, then if you wish… I'll turn myself in."

Seven was taken aback. "Wait, what?"

"After all, if I've done something wrong, it would be best that I pay for my actions. I mean, I did cause them to make a mess of the market."

The charr took one look at her small frame and innocent face. He had great faith in the justice system of the Black Citadel, but if he did let her turn herself in, he knew he would end up staying with her, out of a sense of responsibility, to see how it turned out, which would mean he would delay completing Srykar's instructions. _I'm such a sucker, _he reprimanded himself.

"You aren't registered as a resident here, correct?"

She shook her head. "I just arrived here."

Seven ran a few calculations in his head. As a foreigner, if she was given a moderate punishment it would be banishment from the citadel. An idea formed, and a mischievous gleam sparkled in his eyes. "Hey, Rhiannon, how about we save the Citadel the trouble. Accept banishment now, come with me, and let the soldiers take the brunt."

She grinned at the thought of the soldiers not having a scapegoat. "I knew I liked your cerebellum!"

He blinked and coughed shyly at the compliment, "Alright then, follow me…"

* * *

**If Rhiannon seems at all emotionally/mentally unstable to you, she is very unstable, just want to clarify that. The last time we saw her, she was naked on the beach newly born. She's had a full year to grow as a person and is still growing. And being only a year old, she still is very much a "child" in the mental sense, though she may be full sized physically.**

**There's a lot more I'd like to say about her, but I don't want to spoil. Despite her late arrival to the cast, Rhiannon is going to serve as a very central part of the story.**

**I hope this chapter has been worth the (long) wait!**


	10. Act 2: Chapter 10: BHK, File 1

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Tyria is a world belonging to Arenanet and NCSOFT in the form of the Guild Wars franchise. Ayroh is a character belonging to my friend Kaenes.

To the readers: Thanks for your support, reviews, and the rush of adding this story to your favourites. I'm super happy you like the story!

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Chapter 10: Bloody Hawk Killings, File I

"This is a joke."

"No, it's not."

"I _refuse_ to climb in that thing."

"It's just for a little while, only until we get through the gate."

"Negative!" she snapped.

"Would you rather have an appointment with Seneca down in the stockade? Because that is what's going to happen if you stay."

Seven and Rhia, as he had started calling her for ease sake, glared at each other. He pointed to the box. "Get in, or I'll just leave without you."

One-armed Wick leaned his head into the dark alley. "You two sound like Lakka and I in the morning after too short a night. Hurry up with your squabbling, there are soldiers snooping this way."

Seven glared at the petulant plant and was about to order her again, when instead she gracefully curled up into the box and pulled the makeshift lid over her, leaving him befuddled. The lid was the primary part of the disguise, the sliced off tops of various large bottles, made for carrying hazardous chemicals, welded together and settled perfectly over the crate.

"Well, what's the delay? I'm prepared to go!" Rhiannon declared, her voice echoing metallically.

Shaking his head, he grabbed the straps of the box and lifted it into his back. Once it was secure, he exited the alley and began the trek up to the Asura Gate.

He felt Rhiannon shuffle around inside the space.

"Be careful, some of my stuff is delicate." he muttered out the side of his muzzle.

"I thought you had sent your belongings by post?" she hissed back.

"Yes, but not the valuables. You don't expect me to trust L.A. customs do you? Now be quiet, it looks like some of your friends are waiting at the gate."

Dressed in their casuals, two charr Seven recognised from earlier stood by the gate, pretending to be engaged in conversation, but their eyes roved over each traveller as they approached. As it happened, a sylvari woman, wearing a dark brown cloak was a few places ahead of Seven and his passenger. The two soldiers approached her, and he heard them ask if she had seen a mesmer dressed in similar vestment.

She politely shook her head and was about to continue on, but one of them grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "How do we know that you aren't her? You could be her in one of those illusions! Either that, or you remember her, don't all you 'planties' share the same brain?"

The sylvari scoffed at the suggestion, and the situation soon deteriorated into a heated argument.

Seven tried to maintain as calm a front as possible, waiting his turn to walk through the gate. His ears picked up Rhia shifting about in the crate, and he heard her pop a cork off of a vial.

He growled, trying to get her attention. "What are you doing?"

Suddenly, she let out a sneeze, loud enough to be almost a shriek.

The eyes of the two soldiers zeroed in on Seven immediately, and they brushed aside the now distressed traveller.

As they approached, one of them waved his hand before his snout. "What are you carrying, shorty?"

Seven's own snout wrinkled at the spicy stench of one of his ingredients. He promised himself he was going to make Rhia repay in full if she spilled all of his cinnamon oil.

"Just some chemicals, I wouldn't touch them, they can be a bit volatile."

"They sure don't smell like chemicals."

"It's my own special mixture. The scents make it easier for me to track what I've already added into my compounds." _Yes, Seven, if one of them knows a lick about chemistry you're had._

To his relief, they both shrugged. "Alright, but who sneezed?"

"Oh, that was me, sorry." Seven insisted, mustering a sneeze by sticking a hair up his nostril. To his credit, and humiliation, he forced out a shockingly high-pitched sound.

After a moment of stunned silence, the two soldiers laughed uproariously, joined by the snickers of several travellers.

With ears pressed down, and tail tucked as close behind him as possible, Seven hastened towards the gate. Just as he was a few steps from the goal, he heard Rhiannon toss the lid off of the crate. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pop herself up and wave to the miscreant soldiers.

"Farewell, my cherished ignoramuses!"

Seven did not wait to hear the rest of their angry responses. He cut in line and dashed through the gate, Rhiannon's laughter ringing in his ears. He almost gasped at the sudden change of sensation; the salty stench of low tide, the bustle of people of all races, the sun glaring down on his head. The two gate guards looked at him, or rather the sylvari riding in the crate on his back.

She waved pleasantly at them, suddenly putting on a rustic accent, "Oh, ahoy Gertus, Cordie, long time no see."

They shook their heads and waved her off. "Move along twig, you're impeding traffic."

"You heard him, get going!" she ordered Seven, smacking the back of his head. "Drinks are on me tonight. See you two at the Crow's Nest!"

Mortified, Seven scurried along and wooden platform and across the bridge to a Grand Piazza.

He stopped in the stone square, panting as he regained his breath. "They friends of yours?"

"Never encountered them in my mortality," she responded, suddenly returning to her typical vocabulary. "I was merely being unsuspicious."

"I see…" Without warning, Seven un-strapped himself and lay the pack on the ground. Rhia cried out in surprise. She nimbly landed on the plaza, and set herself about smoothing her garment.

"Well," he began, "I suppose this is where we part ways." He snatched the lining of the crate, and with a tug, the remaining contents were now in a much more manageable bag. He then extended his hand to shake farewell.

"Clever…" Rhiannon muttered. She looked over the charr carefully while she debated inwardly. _He's not an idiot, he's tolerable, and… I'm curious..._

Seeing how the pink-top was ignoring his outstretched hand, he pulled it back and took the crate, looking for a merchant to sell it to.

"Wait!" she cried.

He stopped, "Yes?"

"Do you have a place to stay?"

He nodded, and resumed walking.

"Wait!"

Sighing he responded, "What?"

"What do I do now?"

"I don't know, whatever you want!" He snapped in irritation.

She took a moment to think, and her face lit up. "Wait!"

His four ears flared and his hackles rose as he spun around. "WHAT!?" he roared.

"Do you know how to get to your place?"

After a growl he responded. "Of course! It's…" His hackles deflated and his eyes shifted about as he added meekly, "…in the Western Ward… somewhere."

Rhiannon grinned triumphantly. "Follow me."

"You don't have to keep me company. I'll figure this place out."

"Truly? You think you'll be able to find your place in that crazed jumble of nautical debris?"

"It can't be worse than the Gladium Canton, besides, you can go. You don't owe me anything."

"True" she agreed with a nod, "but you said I could do whatever I want."

A stupefied expression froze Seven's face, which sent Rhiannon into a quick fit of giggles. Once she composed herself she snatched his paw and pulled him along, ignoring his meagre objections.

* * *

Beneath the tangle of wood, sail, and crag of the Northern Ward, a charr whose fur was darker than the shadows leaned against the rock-face, his keen golden eyes searching the darkness.

"I know you're here," his baritone voice rumbled playfully, defying his short stature.

Pale skin shown in the murk as a norn woman approached him. Her fair complexion contrasted with her meagre black garb which failed to cover her toned middle, her right thigh, and left arm and shoulder. She leaned against the ship's hull opposite the charr in the small space.

"I'm glad you could meet with me, Darius."

"It's been too long, Inna. How have your siblings been?"

"Up to no good, of course," she answered cheerfully then her voice turned grim, "How is the boss?"

"Not good, we are all worried about him. He's becoming more distant by the day."

"Poor Ayroh," Inna sighed. The bells in her flaxen hair jingled as she shook her head sadly. "It doubly worries me, because he's left, rumour has it, to northern Ascalon."

"With, or without him, we will fulfil his grand vision. If a mighty shaman like Emberclaw could not win against him, we have little to worry about. He will return, when the time is right. Even a late comer like me can see that Shadowsoul is no one to be taken lightly."

"So you are still going through with that mission he gave you?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"The relic might not even exist."

"And that is for me to confirm." Darius rose and lay a hand on the towering norn's shoulder. "Besides, with all the alone time, I'll get to finish reading the book I just purchased."

"You're still reading that trash?"

"It's romance, my dear Inna, and humans explain it in such…" he tapped the bon protrusions on his chin as he sought the right word, "_fascinating_ detail."

She grimaced at her companion's choice of entertainment. "But… it's about a norn and a human, that's just… unnatural."

"That is why it's fiction, Inna. However, telling by the detail, I think the author might actually be in love with a norn. She's so descriptive in the scenes whe-!"

Inna cuffed the side of his jaw, careful to avoid the horns. "Enough of that, Sootcatcher!" then she pulled him into a bear hug. "Be careful, and Snow Leopard be with you."

She released, once again allowing him to breathe.

"I'm always carefu—," even though he had been looking right at her, she vanished so quickly his keen eyes could not follow. He chuckled, "Fast as ever…"

He walked into the balmy daylight, muttering the list of things he would purchase for his mission. He took a shortcut through a narrow gap, unaware of the steps behind him, and the clawed hand in which appeared a long blade, with the blood of the murdered running down the edge.

* * *

Rhiannon sat primly as she looked about the apartment, whose floor was slanted ever so slightly to give the effect of precariousness, as if the ships the building was made of were still out on the high seas. To her delight there were two beds, and she found it easy to convince her furry companion that she would pay for the food and a quarter of the rent herself if she got the second bed. By this, and other agreements, she discovered money spoke loudly to Seven, and that as long as a price was agreed to, she could compel him to nearly anything.

Her new companion had gone to the local bathhouse leaving her to her own devices. After thoroughly surveying the accommodations, she sat on the window-side bed and looked out at distant harbour. However, this soon proved to be inadequate cognitive stimulation, and her violet eyes began to eagerly peek at Seven's satchel resting on the bed beside her. After a brief moment of indecision, the contents were spilt out of the leather bag. Rhiannon did not even take note of the other items when her eyes saw the large book. After putting the rest of the items back in the bag, she opened the cover. The first pages showed a series of gears with arrows pointing the direction of turning.

"Oh, schematics!" despite how she had no understanding of engineering, there were a plethora of notes and various pictures to peek at, more than enough to keep herself entertained. She made herself comfortable, lying on her side as she flipped through the pages. Once she had gone through the first quarter of the sketch book, there began to be fewer schematics, and more true art pieces. Landscapes, flowers, still life, a couple attempts at self-portrait, and even a rendering of a grizzled charr's bust. Rhiannon found the change in art fascinating, and then something surprised her. A little over halfway through, the schematics almost disappeared entirely, and in their place was a human girl.

Rhiannon knew little of art, but she could tell the strokes of the lead were softer, slower, more painstakingly made, to render a highly detailed sketch. Page after page, she could see the same girl gradually grow into a young woman. The sylvari was utterly confused. Were not the charr and humans opposites? She knew of the ceasefire, but even in Lion's Arch the two races were on just cordial terms. Why would a charr, from Ascalon no less, have half a sketchbook dedicated to a human? In her brief, but full year of life, she had never encountered anything like it.

She flipped back and went through the pictures again. She noticed in all of them, the girl seemed to be in the midst of some routine action: resting from work, sleeping, eating, laughing, in many of them she was smiling, but the artist faithfully captured all her other emotions as well. She skipped forward in the book, to see what the most recent pieces were. She found these different, more hesitation, more uncertainty, and the woman was no longer alone, she was now joined by Seven, even if it was just an arm which was wrapped around her shoulder, or his toothy maw grinning back at her smile.

The charr himself walked in, dressed after his bath and towelling his damp mane and fur as well as he could. "What are you-?!"

Rhiannon rolled off the bed and dashed to the other side of the room, keeping him from retrieving his sketchbook. "I was just looking at your pictures. You are a very good artist." She looked back at him, mildly ashamed of her nosy conduct, but was intrigued when she saw his four ears flop forward and widen in embarrassment.

"Those are… private." He shuffled nervously.

"Really? I was not aware." _Well… yes perhaps I could have taken the hint._

With astonishing speed, he snatched his book and thrust it back into his pack.

Rhiannon blinked in curiosity. "Why are you embarrassed? Is there something you're hiding?"

"No-, yes-, I don't know." He shook his head in frustration and several half-hearted growls escaped his throat. "Those are just schematics. I don't want someone else to claim credit for my designs."

She felt like her eyes had been opened. "Oh yes, I understand that! Asura will do _anything_ to protect their inventions." _Even destroy each other's lives,_ "I did not know charr were like that too."

Seven sighed in relief, "Yes, of course!" he nodded earnestly.

With the awkwardness aside, Rhia now felt perfectly comfortable asking him who the girl was.

His relief vanished, and the awkwardness returned, much to her confusion. "Orla… the girl is Orla."

"She's very beautiful."

His silence confused her. Obviously he agreed, why not say so?

The sylvari could tell he had no intention of continuing the conversation, so she rose, exclaiming how famished she was. "How about we head on over to Crow's Nest? They have delicious grilled salmon."

At the mention of food, Seven's face brightened and Rhiannon figured she could coax more information out of him after he had a full stomach and more than a few drinks. _Who knew tagging along with strangers could be so interesting? This could become a habit of mine._

* * *

Faint gurgles and silenced cries caught Darius Sootcatcher's attention. He stopped, closed the book he was half reading, and turned around. He wondered if his ears were not playing tricks on him, but another moment later he caught a sickening scent in the air. He followed his nose around a corner and into an alley which he had not one minute ago passed through. The quiet alley had been transformed from a lazy place for a drunk to recover, into a little corner of hell.

Blood was sprayed across the walls, scarlet foot and handprints were everywhere, and once he shimmied around a tall pile of crates, his stomach lurched in revulsion. The bodies of at least six humans were cast about the narrow space, their blood forming a pool beneath them. One more step and Darius' paw felt damp from the still warm fluid soaking into his fur.

A rushing wind, a blade, a shadow, swift and silent, Darius on instinct moved to avoid a cut from a wickedly toothed dagger. He only got a glimpse of a dark mass when he slipped on the blood. He caught himself and gasped in disgust, his left hand was inside the empty abdominal cavity of one of the victims, devoid of organs.

As he tried to rise, he drew his pistol from his belt, ready to face his foe. Lights danced in his vision as pain engulfed his skull. He fell into the red puddle, his weary gaze staring out at a sideways world as a dark figure vanished into the roofs and masts, and before his eyes a black hawk spread its wings.

* * *

**Mostly character development, but now the reason for the ominous ACT 2 title (A Bird Drawn in Blood) should be apparent. A killer loose in Lion's Arch! And yes, I came up with this plot long before that whole Dragon Bash fiasco in game.**


	11. Act 2: Chapter 11: SMC

**This chapter is dedicated to xAlalax on Deviantart who posted her lovely piece of fanart of Rhiannon. She captured her impish personality perfectly.  
**

**Again, thank you everyone for reviews, favourites, and subscriptions, I appreciate it!**

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Chapter 11: Satisfactorily Marinated Cucumber

Rhiannon caught Seven's arm, keeping him from stumbling into a vendor's cart as he attempted to make his way back to the apartment in his drunken stupor. She had a while back learned that charr were prodigious drinkers, but apparently this one had not wet his throat in too long. After only two tankards of beer, he was well beyond tipsy.

_Quite a flumudgen you've gotten yourself into, Rhiannon. How would I know he was incapable of withstanding his alcohol? Is 'flumudgen' even a word? *sigh* I need to return home soon and magnify my vocabulary. _

Though she had to support and fuss with him, she was very pleased with herself. In a quiet corner of the bar she had learned what she believed was near everything there was to know about Seven Steelwolf. He told her about his injury on his first real mission out of the fahrar, his pleasant life with Srykar, and Orla's arrival and her departure. He seemed especially sad when he spoke of the girl. Then he stiffly recounted Srykar's death, and continued with the letter he had been given and boasted how he had already completed the first two steps. Even in his drunkenness he did not disclose what was to come next, and Rhiannon was content with that, a little mystery made him more interesting to her.

Rhiannon had decided, she was staying with him. He inspired her. Seven, a former cripple, now going on an adventure, free from any ties but those he chose. Wherever the path took him, she wanted to help him on his way. She pulled him through a narrow space, letting him use his other arm to balance himself on a wall.

"Careful!" she exclaimed just as he was about to trip over a stack of crates.

"*hic* I got it-," he shook his body and smacked his neck, trying to bring himself out his buzz. He breathed out, and the reek of booze nearly knocked her over. "Thanksh."

"You're welcome,"

He squinted at her. "Yoush… preddy."

She blinked, taken back by the sudden statement.

"Not Orla though, but preddy."

Rhiannon navigated around the pile, chuckling at his antics. Her laughter tripped into a gasp when she looked before her. Auroras of blood on the walls, pooling on the ground, limbs frozen in rigor mortis, a grotesque scene sprawled before her, so unlike warm, playful Lion's Arch.

"No..." she breathed as images flashed through her mind, the stench of rotten fruit reached her nostrils. Black slime engulfed her in a flood. She could not breathe. A needle pricking at her back, hunger, pain, disgust… her mind was shutting down. She was not supposed to remember. This never happened. She was not disgusting, not devouring, not monstrous, only Rhiannon, one time genius in training, forever verbosely brilliant.

Her companion's exclamation tore her out of the imaginary slime. Seven brushed passed her, suddenly awakening from his drunkenness and clumsily looking among the corpses for any signs of life. On the opposite side of the pile of the half-dozen humans, lay a black charr, face down. The feline, who was about the same height as Seven's minute stature, though much less bulkily built, shifted, bringing a paw to the back of his head. He groaned in agony.

"What happenth here?" Seven demanded.

The night furred charr blinked and seemed to come out of his daze. He looked around with a start. He looked back at Seven. "That's what I was wondering before you clocked me!"

"I didn' 'ttack you."

"Well, someone did!"

"We should contact the Lio-" Rhiannon suggested, but her voice was cut off by a booming command.

"Halt! Place your hands, paws, and other appendages away from your bodies and turn around!"

Seven whirled, reaching for his pistol, the next thing he knew he was pinned to the ground and gasping for air.

"No you don't you mangy cat." A tanned norn barked in his ear.

Seven could see Rhiannon politely allowing a human Lion Guard to shackle her. "Are you undamaged Seven? How propitious that the G.O.L.G., that is, the Good Old Lion Guard, showed up so promptly. I suppose this means they are on the trail of…"

She continued to ramble as Seven was shackled and hefted to his back paws as if he weighed next to nothing and escorted between the norn and a charr Lion Guard. Behind him he saw the black charr likewise being shackled, relieved of weapons, and escorted.

"…luminous day isn't it Carl? I'm so glad we're out of that unwarrantable mess of a passageway. How horrible a pr—,"

Seven interrupted her one way conversation with the Lion Guard who was trying his hardest to be stern with the amiable sylvari. "Rhia, we are being _arrested._ You do know that, right?"

"Of course we are! I've never had this happen before, so it's quite exciting!" she turned back to Lion Guard Carl, "Not to say no one has wanted to arrest me before, there was this time back in Rata Sum when I was…"

He sighed in exasperation at her carefree attitude as she related various misdemeanours to her arresting officer. By the time they reached the jail, she had very nearly talked Carl's ear off, and she hardly took a breath until the three were dumped in a dank and cramped cell.

The sylvari looked about for a moment, her pinkish bioluminescence in her hair, eyes, and folds of her tender bark-skin, brightening the drab surroundings. She solemnly declared, "This is a satisfactorily marinated cucumber we discover ourselves in!" then flopped onto one of the glorified shelves which hung from opposite walls that would serve as their beds.

* * *

After a silent few hours, the dark charr spoke up, "Since we're all going to be here a while, my name's Darius Sootcatcher. Being an all-around scoundrel, it's not my first time in here, so don't worry, the food isn't bad and there's no diseased rats."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," the pink top piped up, "My name is Rhiannon, though the silent one beating his head against the bars has started calling me 'Rhia' lately, not that I mind. His name's Seven Steelwolf, he's famous back in the Gladium Canton as a great physician." She was tempted to exaggerate more, but her partner did not seem up to correcting her, so further exaggeration would not have been amusing.

Darius chuckled, "Sorry to have never heard of your famous friend, but I've never been to the Citadel. Spent my life in Kryta, and never cared for the whole 'born to be a soldier' routine."

Seven began pounding on the bars, hoping to find some sort of weakness. After half a minute of frustration, he let out a roar and attacked the bars violently.

"Seven!" Rhiannon cried, "What's wrong?!"

"I don't want to be here!"

"You speak for all of us," Darius countered, "There's no reason to throw a tantrum against bars that will not break."

"I can't keep her waiting!" he roared.

Darius cocked a thick, tufted brow. "Who? You have a mate back home or something?"

Seven's eyes widened in mortification at his hangover slip.

Rhiannon saw his expression and waved her hands about to get Darius' attention. "He's talking about a friend. He made a promise and he needs to keep it." She smiled, seeking approval of her vague explanation.

The silver-fur nodded in relieved thanks.

Darius could tell there was more going on, but he was never a nosey type so he kept his suspicions to himself. His nose twitched in recognition of a familiar and very welcome scent. He hurried to the bars just as Inna Fronsdotter appeared from the shadows of the corridor. "Inna!" he purred happily and extended his forepaw.

She grasped his paw warmly. "Are you well, Sootface?"

"On seeing you, fair spring magnolia, my situation is as-,"

She glowered briefly, silencing him, and muttered some dark oath concerning trashy literature. "Short of breaking you out of here, is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well, there is a killer on the loose. If you caught him we might get released."

Her face glowed. "You mean, like a hunt!?" The tall woman's maturity melted away leaving an eager child. "I've never gone on a hunt before!"

Seven looked perplexed. "But… you're a Norn, hunting is what you do, isn't it?"

"My mother died before she could take me on my first hunt, and it's not as if there are praise-worthy beasts in Lion's Arch." She paused and looked at Seven for the first time. "Spirits! I thought Darius was short, you're positively puny."

Inna stepped on off limits ground with her last statement and Seven began a snide reply, "Perhaps y—,"

"And such tiny horns!"

Rhia snorted.

His blazing glare vanished and was replaced by a strange snarl that seemed to suggest something closer to embarrassment. Meanwhile pink-head was desperately trying to stifle her giggles.

Darius threw in his own statement for good measure, "He does have a tiny set, doesn't he? You know what they say about small h—,"

"Th-they're still growing!" Seven countered, "Besides, we're getting off topic. Fronsdotter,"

"Call me Inna."

"… Fronsdotter, can you find the culprit? I need out of here."

"No need to fight him, just find him." Darius added, "Please be careful, don't start anything you can't get away from."

"You're looking at the current holder of the Shadow Master title!" the norn boasted in traditional form. "Was it not I, who traversed the entirety of Lion's Arch in record time _and_ stole a most personal item of Evon Gnashblade?" she waited, basking in the adoration she was certain to be receiving. She looked and saw Darius rolling his eyes, and the silver charr's uninterested and annoyed expression. However, salvation for her pride was there in the form of the wide-eyed sylvari.

"What? What did you st—er—purloin?!" Rhia asked excitedly, almost forgetting her superior vocabulary.

Inna let out a prideful laugh. "Why, what could be more personal to a charr than his," she paused for effect, "_loincloth_?" she followed this with a raucous laugh which belonged in a snowed in pub in a faraway place with a much less literally captive audience. "In order to gain the Shadow Master title, there's an underground competition every year of for all those skilled in shadow arts. One must traverse Lion's Arch, and steal a belonging of one of the city's aristocrats. This year it was Evon's turn, and his clerk was present to verify that my tribute was indeed a possession of the wealthiest citizen of Lion's Arch. You should have seen their faces!" Her raucus laughter boomed through the prison which she had moments before snuck into.

The two charr grimaced in mild disgust while Rhia practically swooned in admiration. "So commendable!" she exclaimed, "If shadow arts capacities were at all more remarkable than mesmeric enchantments, I would envy you. But to accomplish so much with such mediocre methods is significantly praiseworthy!"

Inna's grin faltered; no longer was she certain of being complimented. "Wait… huh?"

Darius cut off her decent from Praise-Mountain and pleaded, "Inna, please, hurry! Shadowsoul will never trust me if I can't even finish this mission without trouble."

She nodded eagerly, smiled at Seven, and gave a confused glance to Rhiannon. Without a tell or sign, she vanished, leaving only shadowy wisps.

"So… now what?" Rhiannon asked.

Darius waved casually, "We wait, either that or we could brea—,"

"Break out you say?"

The dark charr let out a yelp of surprise as he was prodded by a stick. He whirled around to see a burly norn.

"When did you—me? Break out? Never! Preposterous! I was just saying how great the décor in here is—_aye_!"

He jumped back as the norn prodded him again. "Shut your muzzle. You've got a lot of nerve being so relaxed after slaughtering forty people."

"I did not kill anyo—, wait! Forty?"

"I just want to know one thing, was this all about Ebonhawke or not?"

"Ebo…" Darius looked stunned.

"Was it Ebonhawke which motivated you?"

"I'm not the killer!" he roared, "What does Ebonhawke mean to me? It's nothing but a rundown fort in another country. Why should I care?"

"You're a charr."

"So now my race has something to do with it?"

"Your legions sure do."

"To the Mists with the Legions, and their citadels!" Darius snapped.

Seven bristled at the insult to his country, but maintained calm.

The norn bellowed, somehow finding the spite in his prisoner's voice funny.

Darius's eyes burned with agony and rage. "The Legions and their enemies mean nothing to me! Why would they? The Legion betrayed my sire! Disgraced and then killed my mother! I owe no loyalty. Let the Legions burn, all four of them!"

The norn's humour died as the truth in the prisoner's voice struck him. He could not laugh anymore.

Seven stared at Sootcatcher's back. His ire at the blasphemy was tempered by a curiosity. The wrath he heard and the pain he saw was not faked.

At last the guard spoke. "Rhiannon and Seven Steelwolf, you're alibis have been confirmed. You were not in Lion's arch until this day, and the killings have been going on for weeks. Darius, during half of the killings, you were outside of Lion's Arch. Inna Fronsdotter had a few of her associates vouch for you with evidence. You three are not off the hook, but are lowered to persons of interest and Darius remains our most likely culprit."

"So can we go, or can't we?" Seven demanded.

"Look, I'll make you a deal. Either we can get around to your arrest records on file in the next couple weeks, or, we could move them to the top of the pile on one condition."

"What's that?"

"You fight in the arena. The Lion Guard needs funds, and you three look like capable entertainment. We get a cut of your winnings, and you get to go free."

Seven pondered the situation. He had gold enough to bail them out, but there was no one outside the cell he could trust to retrieve it, certainly not the gold hungry Lion Guard. The arena presented opportunity, but at the same time, he was not sure whether his cellmates, or himself, were skilled enough to hold their own. "What happens if we die? This would be nothing more than an execution."

The norn laughed aloud. "You really are new here!"

Rhiannon elbowed Seven playfully. "The arena is perforated with enchantments and there are healers. No one has ever expired in the arena. It's quite pleasurable to watch!"

Her reassurances eased Seven, but there was still the final question. "Very well then, what happens if we lose?"

The norn grinned.

* * *

**Yes, there is a Edge of Destiny homage here, but the Lion Guard's actions in the book seemed to have been pretty orthodox methods.**

**Yes, a setup chapter, but good things come to those who wait.**


	12. Act 2: Chapter 12: Lead Dancers

**Before I invite you to read this chapter, I want to thank all of my readers for being so supportive! This story is now the 2nd most followed, 3rd most favourited, and 11th most reviewed of all Guild Wars stories on FFN. Thank you so much for your support!**

**Also, thank you xAlalax for another adorbs fanart this time featuring Rhiannon and Seven! **

**xalalax. deviantart art/Turn-that-frown-upside-down-398443226 (remove spaces for link).  
**

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Chapter 12 : Lead Dancers

Darius, Seven, and Rhiannon were given one full day to prepare for their bout in the arena. Many hours were spent showing one another their abilities, planning strategies, and practicing co-operative techniques. Seven found himself the most disadvantaged. He was clever with his use of gadgets, surprises, volatile elixirs, and was a fair shot with his pistol, but he was completely unused to close combat. It had been six years since he had done any training, and though some of his lessons came back to him as he sparred with Darius, he was inferior to any average fighter.

Rhiannon took such observations in stride for him. "Relax," she reassured, "maintain your remoteness and prohibit them from flanking us. We will defend you!"

Darius grumbled his inaudible reservations, but agreed with her nonetheless.

Ears drooping humbly, Seven resigned to his status as back up for his two combat ready companions. He discovered Rhiannon was particularly confident in her skills, though she always insisted on practicing in a separate gym from them. Her explanation was wordy as always, but Seven understood that being a mesmer, her power was astonishment, and if her two companions knew what she planned to do, their countenance would show it, possibly give away a visual cue and betray her plans to their opponents.

More than once, Darius and Seven considered escape, seeing they had free access to weapons now, but they concluded that making enemies of the Lion Guard was not in their best interests, and since they had been allowed use of an armoury, there had to have been securities in place to foil an escape.

The new day came, and the three of them stood in quiet apprehension behind the barred gate to the arena. They watched the current battle with interest, but as they watched it come to a close, they felt uneasy. The vanquished and victorious were escorted off, boasting serious contusions, causing the three to doubt the promise of the protective wards. Furthermore, the fighting skill of the teams showed experience and strategy, much higher than they had formed. Even the ever confident Rhiannon, had a slight frown on her face and lost her verbacious glee.

The pause between matches passed, the bets collected, and the gate before them opened. They stepped out into the arena, clad in mostly their own clothes, but their guard insisted on them wearing grey-blue shirts, to give them a look of uniformity so the crowd could tell the teams apart.

A magnified, tenor voice boomed over the arena, "We have a treat for you, you bloodthirsty lot! Are you ready to see a show!?"

The crowd cried out in an eager, but not overly loud, "Yes!"

"Well, we have a treat for you today. From the northern mountains, the rising champions, Bain!"

The crowd responded much louder. Into the arena walked five figures.

Darius' hackles rose, "Wait… why are there five?!" he exclaimed, glaring at the norn guard standing behind the gate.

The norn shrugged, "Didn't you say you grew up here? We never claim every match to be a fair one."

Seven's stomach went cold as he strategized, trying to figure out how best he could be affective against the odds. A cool hand rested on his arm. He turned his head and locked gaze with Rhiannon.

She smiled warmly at him. "I will level the probabilities," she said, rubbing her hand over his arm few times.

Somehow, her touch eased his worries and allowed him to think clearly. They had been assuming an even three on three, a grave mistake. But greater numbers could be taken advantage of, particularly with a mesmer on their team. But that also meant that the two charr would have to place their faith in the taller than average twigg.

Darius grunted in agreement with her. He had been up against greater odds before. He started doing the math in his head. Seven only amounted to half an ally at most. Judging by Rhiannon's confidence, and how unpredictable mesmers could be, she would probably make up for Seven's shortcoming. And then there was himself, the Sootcatcher. He was not nearly as fast a shadow-stepper as Inna, but unlike her, he had stamina and martial skill which he had not had matched recently. He was going to have to count as at least three people to make for a fair fight. The key to victory was reacting, and taking full benefit from the sylvari's strategy, she would somehow be their saviour. In that moment he realised her brilliance in keeping her skill a secret. It forced him to keep his mind open, not looking for a specific cue which would distract him.

The pink-top knew much more about fighting than she was letting on. _How intriguing, _he thought. If they won, he decided he was going to coax whatever knowledge he could out of her. _Perhaps the Foundation could use her?_

Further reflection was cut short as the applause fell quiet and the speaker introduced them, "And over here, our newcomers,"

They entered, eliciting a silent curiosity from the crowd, scattered amongst the voices were a few humoured coughs and smattering of polite claps.

"The Lead Dancers!"

Darius and Seven looked at each other to confirm that they heard the atrocious name right.

"They might as well call us the Twirling Turnips." Seven snapped quietly. The crowds returned a bout of chuckles as they heard his magically amplified complaint echo through the arena. He smacked his paw to his brow in exasperation.

Two spectators, a norn and human who sat just above the arena sands spoke noisily to one other. "Are you sure those little guys are charr? They are tiny!"

"Maybe they are females?"

"They must be grawl! Haha!"

"How did a pretty twig like her join up with a couple of grawl?" the human added, gesturing at Rhiannon.

Darius grit his fangs together. He heard a clicking sound and looked over at Seven who was tapping his claws against his pistol, a dangerous glint in his eye. _I like his inner ferocity, what he lacks in martial skill he has in spirit and in technical smarts. Krasst could employ him as a lab assistant… or Vyuun, yes he and Vyuun would get along famously._ He continued on a mental tangent about the cheerful asura, remembering the many humorous events surrounding hi,.

Rhiannon was affected differently by the mocking laughter. She seemed to relish in the attention. As far as she was concerned, every eye was on her, and she felt glorious. Her face glowed in interest as she looked at their opponents. Two charr in heavy armour with monstrous weapons, a norn male and female, each wearing revealing leather clothes, and a… She blinked.

She whispered something so inaudible even the sharp ears of her companions could barely hear it.

"Is something the matter?" Darius asked, thinking she had sneezed or coughed, worried a sickness might throw his battle predictions off.

"Kwashingfixleslumpfisgishmnar!" she exclaimed excitedly, stumbling over her words.

"What?"

"It's… it's a QUAGGAN! A genuine, adorable, round _quaggan_!"

Of course, her squealing was amplified and the crowd chuckled at her antics, and then roared at the object of her affection's reaction. The quaggan fighter bellowed back at her, "Oooo, you speak mocking Quaggan, flower-top, woo!" He then spun his trident in what was meant to be a ferocious manner, as he conjured water about him.

Rhiannon clapped at the show, her chuckling laughter causing the audience to smile agreeably her way.

Darius sighed as quietly as he could to avoid being amplified. _Am I the _only_ reliable member of this team?_ He looked at the quaggan that had changed his comrade into a silly sprout. His bluish skin was riddled with scars and discolorations. _What's the big deal? Even I'm cuter than _that_ lump of hide!_

"Let the fight begin!"

Before the declaration had finished echoing, the "Lead Dancers" were dodging volleys of ice shards from the irate quaggan whose face had turned a frightful red hue. Darius avoided the projectiles easily, and glanced at his allies. Rhiannon, like himself, seemed more than capable of evading the projectiles, while keeping an eye on the rapidly approaching norns and charr.

Seven seemed to be the only one struggling, but once he grew accustomed to his shield, he even set about shooting back with his pistol, shattering the ice projectiles before they reached him.

_He's going to have to do better than that, but it's a start,_ Darius thought as he closed the distance between himself and team Bain, all the while evading the attacks with ease. In one swift movement, he tore off his sleeveless overcoat revealing his bare chest which had a white V of fur over his sternum and another below his naval. Over both shoulders he wore leather straps, crisscrossing his chest and back, covered in row upon row of small sheathed knives. A bloodthirsty cheer erupted from portions of the audience, in approval of his nonverbal statement that he meant business. There was also a roar cat-calls from the audience at his sudden disrobing, and he resisted the temptation to check if any of them happened to be attractive females.

Without any flourish or cocky showmanship, he drew five knives between his fingers and cast them. It was the first retaliation, and the opposing team was cautious, deflecting and dodging the projectiles, wary of enchantments or sleight of hand.

"Tiny blades from a tiny charr!" the norns taunted in unison.

Darius did not even try to conceal the hand motion, purposefully alerting his opponents that he was about to shadow step. He vanished then reappeared behind the norn huntress.

She twirled and attacked with her sword, getting whoops and hollars from a group of inebriated norn, and a few humans, who enjoyed seeing more intriguing angles of the scantily clad fighter.

Charr and norn began their dangerous dance. Darius used his comparative lack of height to his advantage, constantly forcing the norness to defend her core and allowing him to scramble beneath her swipes, all the while pushing her back. The male norn joined into dance with his greatsword. To their surprise, the small charr's paws left the ground as he twirled, spun, flipped, and parried, jumping off of limbs and blades alike. Then with a flick he sent a knife into each of their shoulders.

They ignored the small wounds, seeing them as nothing more than an irritant. The two synced their movements, and prepared an unavoidable assault. But like statues, they froze, surprised exclamations escaping their lips as they wondered why they could no longer move. Looking down, they saw the tiny knives, sticking out of their sides, thighs, and abdomen. They dropped their weapons, overcome by the numbing venoms and toxins which coated the blades.

Darius smiled. "I think even your numbed minds now understand why I use "tiny blades.""

The two northern fighters collapsed onto the sands, unable to even curse at his underhanded tactics.

* * *

The huge, reddish charr spun in a half circle, slamming his hammer into Seven's shield. Though he had blocked the blow, the much smaller feline failed to stop the inertia, which reverberated through his skeleton and sent him flying some ten metres until he smashed into the wooded arena wall, cracking the boards on impact.

If it was not for the wards which he discovered _did_ in fact exist, he would have been knocked unconscious or worse. Even the damage to the wall was mostly produced by the ward releasing the kinetic energy from his body. As it was, he lost all strength to his legs, and he sank to the sand, while the red-fur approached, armour dented and cracked from the six bullets Seven had fired, which the wards of arena prevented them from doing serious damage.

"Get up!" Seven ordered himself, "Get up you useless lump!" He succeeding in bringing one of his legs beneath him, but found himself stuck. He closed his eyes, what he saw reminded him of his goal.

_Orla…_

His right paw dove into his shirt and withdrew a vial. "You like to smash things, eh?" he roared at the approaching opponent. He yanked the cork from the bottle and threw it.

The charr raised his hammer to knock it aside, but as soon as he did, a brilliant white flash blinded him as the contents of the vial combusted in the air. With all his might, Seven thrust himself forward and activated the device he strapped to his chest behind his coat. A steel plate burst out and struck the disoriented warrior on his hammer-wielding shoulder. A loud _snap_ sounded as his arm disjointed.

"I can smash too!" Seven declared.

The warrior roared in pain and anger and dropped his hammer, then responded with a left hook. The next thing Seven knew, he was flat on his back, staring in a daze at the high canvas ceiling, and thinking how very unbalanced the wards were against firearms.

* * *

Four Rhiannons dashed about the arena, fighting, blinking, vanishing, reappearing, and shattering, much to the ire of the quaggan hydromancer, who was nearing exhaustion. The two charr, one of whom was only using a one handed mace after his brief exchange with Seven, attempted to gang up on the nimble shadowstepper, but were continually being harried by duel bladed clones of the verbose, pink-topped menace.

Rhiannon spotted Darius' cast aside coat and noticed how he was trying to lead the charr towards it. She sent two clones their way to assist Darius, then turned on the quaggan.

"Now listen here, amphibious one, I'm quite finished with this entire hullabaloo. So don't be a bookah and just resign!"

The quaggan glared at her. The normally passive features of his rotund race were absent, replaced by a reddish face and hordes of razor sharp teeth jutting outwards.

Rhiannon took a step back, but retorted. "Oh, I've seen all that bef-!"

Her words were cut off by the ground shifting beneath her. A wave of heat struck her side and she realised the quaggan created a geyser beneath her feet. She tried to escape, but waves of steam struck her, scalding her tender bark and leaves. She dove and rolled in the dirt, biting her lips to keep from screaming out from the pain. Ignoring her injuries she rose. She cast aside her pair of asura swords and retrieved a silver rod with a crescent shaped hook on one end. She flicked her hand and the rod unfolded revealing a long staff which she twirled into a defensive posture.

She glared back at the ferocious quaggan. A violet glow burst from the staffs tip. Before he knew anything else, the quaggan was engulfed in a storm of chaos magic. False sensations of burning, nausea, terror, bleeding, electrocution, drowning, and a host of other deaths overwhelmed his senses. The quaggan fell forward, exhausted.

Rhiannon's face twisted with concern. Her mesmeric attack was hardly at all blocked by the wards. Had this been a real battle, the quaggan would have defeated her easily, but it seemed the wards favoured mesmers because a mesmer's harm was mostly mental, thus not protected against by normal wards, which were obviously designed to stop serious physical harm. Her gut churned with regret for not holding back in her moment of fury, but more pressing issues were at hand.

She resumed focus on the two charr which attacked mercilessly at the much smaller Darius, but what the dark, partially disrobed charr lacked in size and strength, he made up for with agility, speed, and surprise. As Rhiannon approached to lend a hand, she made two observations. First, the larger, red charr seemed to be favouring his shoulder, she had been too focused on maintaining her illusions to notice when he had been injured. Second, the slightly smaller brown charr was holding back, hiding some trump card, and deliberately trying to lure Darius in a different direction.

She whispered a mantra and her eyes rolled back in their sockets as she summoned a crackling ball of chaos magic into her hand. The magical ball fluttered from her hand to her staff which she aimed towards the red charr, launching the chaotic glow. The strike rang true on her target's broad back, illusionary butterflies scattering about him, then the chaos regrouped and bounced between her two enemies, casting confusing images between them and then striking Darius, but instead of confusing him, it brought him clarity. He had already known that one of the charr was holding back something, but now he knew what because of a well-placed thought which transferred through the sylvari's chaotic ricochet.

Along with the discovery, he also received Rhiannon's voice, ringing in his ears. "_Use your snare, even though it will be unsuccessful_."

Darius vanished.

His cast aside jacket rose from the ground, its owner materialising within amidst swirls of shadow magic. From his sleeves emerged his paws wielding twin pistols. He roared as he took aim and fired a volley.

The two charr moved in vain, for they could not be faster than bullets, but a flash of light burst between the still standing combatants. With no time to think Darius shadow stepped as his ricocheted bullets struck zipped through the shadowy wisps he left behind.

A collective gasp echoed through the audience as everyone gaped at the projectile proof barrier the brown charr had summoned. The announcer broke the stunned silence, "Well citizens, I think I've seen it all! Grindik Nametaker has been a guardian in disguise these past several months! My mind is blown!"

Grindik roared at Darius, "You will pay dearly for that dirty trick!"

Darius smirked. "Oh, so I caught you off _guard_ did you? Some fighters feel insulted when they realise they were being coddled."

A fire burned in Nametaker's eyes as his hands became engulfed in blue flames and he drew a sword and enchanted torch. "I was going to use this power against the best, so consider the coming agony an honour!" he seethed. The charr guardian raised his sword towards the ground and thrust down.

The arena sands rippled out, and an uneasy feeling clenched Darius' gut.

"Look out!" Rhiannon screamed.

The ground beneath Darius erupted.

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**Well that escalated!**

**Plotwise, this chapter focuses on the abilities of all the characters and gives a baseline from which they will grow. It does distract from the main plot of the story, but I feel in the long run it's going to be meaningful when people look back on where these characters were, and where they will be in the future.**

**For those of you that read Edge of Destiny, you now know how Dance of Lead the title originated. The Lead Dancers' origin does homage Destiny's Edge however from there on out, the story is going to take some drastic turns. This story is my love letter to Tyria, in both the games and the books, so I hope you continue to enjoy.  
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**Next week will bring some surprises, and a return to the plot, plus another *drastic mood shift*, so look forward to it as I frantically write it!  
**


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